Of Lace and Porcelain
by Scattered-Irises
Summary: Each doll is an elegantly crafted masterpiece, their beautiful faces unchanging. Sometimes, Thomas wishes that his family were more like that. In the wake of their father's untimely departure, the urge to preserve his family becomes even more stronger. When his fantasies spin out of control, he leaves behind a path of misery, pain and ultimately, regret.
1. A Few Brief Words

Prologue: A Few Brief Words

* * *

"The words with which a child's heart is poisoned, through malice or through ignorance, remain branded in his memory, and sooner or later they burn his soul," The Shadow of the Wind, by Carlos Ruíz Zafón

* * *

Hello everyone. My name is Scattered-Irises. I am quite active on Tumblr, with the same username. This was for the 2019 Yu-Gi-Oh Big Bang and was originally released on AO3. It went swimmingly well with the readers there and I would like the readers here to enjoy the same story. Thank you for choosing to not sleep tonight.

The cover you see here was drawn by my friend for the Big Bang event. Please follow them on aerialartistic on tumblr.

As links are unable to be displayed properly on this website, please refer to the AO3 version for additional illustrations and bonus content (There is a lot).


	2. Departure

Departure

_My three sons,_

_I believe it is now the time for my departure. The memories have become far too burdensome for me. With a heavy heart, I shall distance myself from all of you. I wish each of you the best of luck in leading happy lives. You do not need a monster—nor a memory of a monster—looming over your bright futures. Please know that I give you the gift of a father's mercy._

_Byron Tron Arclight_

The letter weighs heavily in Thomas's hands. He rereads the letter, over and over again. In the background, his brothers are also grieving in their own ways. Michael looks at the note forlornly, trying not to cry. Christopher has focused his attention into a book, his lips ever so slightly trembling. Their living room is completely silent, save for the sounds of the grandfather clock. _Tick. Tock. Tick…._ He wishes the clock would shut up. It was a constant reminder that time waited for no one.

Slowly, he runs his fingers above the scar across his eye. The tingling feeling that always follows brings a rush of anger in his heart. His face had been disfigured in the name of saving their father. Despite it being longer than four years ago, the memories of the incident still burned fresh in his mind. In the desperate hopes that his real father would eventually return, he had sacrificed his own sanity. It had taken countless hours of therapy for him to stop feeling the flames of the accident and for the nightmares to cease their relentless nightly onslaughts. And it had all been in vain.

Angrily crumpling up the letter, Thomas tosses it into the roaring fireplace. He watches the hungry flames lick at the paper, soon reducing it to nothing but ashes. Gasps follow from his brothers and he turns around to glare at them. He had almost killed someone for that man. On some nights, he could still hear her screams. They were not as vivid as before, but they still brought chills down his back. He had broken himself for that man, desperate to earn his recognition. Yet all he got in return was scorn.

And now that man was gone. Storming up the stairs, Thomas knocks down a family portrait. He remembers when they had taken that and grimaces. Three years ago, during the summer festival where they were trying to repair the broken pieces of their family. His father had praised his skills at the carnival games and that had put a smile on Thomas's face for the rest of the day. As he walks past more pictures, the anger in his heart rises. How foolish he had been . That masked creature had never been his father.

Slamming the door behind him, he walks into his room and falls into his chair. Across the table is Petunia, his mother's seventh birthday gift to him. She was worn with age, which was a sign that she had been well played with. Her smile was fading, but her sculpted dimples remained. He had patched up her dress countless times throughout his youth and by now it was more patches than satin. When he had first received her, she had a full head of curly hair. Today the curls were gone and so was a significant amount of her hair. Even so, she was still beautiful to him.

_If only his family could be like that. Eternally pleasant and beautiful._

Besides Petunia was Sylvia, another gift from his mother. She had been the second to last gift his mother would give him before she had passed away. Sylvia had not been played with as much, evident from her straight, platinum-blonde hair and dark velvet blue dress. As always, her blue eyes looked at him sternly. Unlike other dolls, she did not smile but instead seemed to frown in disapproval. Neat, long-haired and pale. Thomas thinks of Christopher and immediately scowls.

Throughout his life, Christopher had looked down at him with condescension. He had never bothered to understand Thomas nor his hobbies. To Christopher, his brother was far too emotional and impulsive. Whenever Thomas did something, Christopher would always have something to say about it. At this point in his life, Thomas had stopped trying to please him. He was 21 years old for crying out loud, no longer the attention-needy teenager he was.

Or so that was what he told himself.

_Creeaak..._ Thomas turns his head and sees Michael hesitantly enter the room. It's strange how it seemed just yesterday he was clinging to Thomas and crying at being abandoned at the orphanage. All vestiges of puppy fat had melted from Michael's body, leaving him with a lithe and elegant form. But unlike Christopher, Thomas knew that beneath the deceptively trimmed form was a collection of hardened muscle. He had seen Michael spar with his sword in the garden and had come to the realization that Michael no longer needed his brothers' protection. Yet he was still so gentle and naive at times that Thomas had to smile. In the end, he was still the youngest.

"Are you alright?" murmurs Michael as he closes the door behind him.

He warily steps over a pile of Thomas's clothes and makes his way towards his brother.

"Fine," mutters Thomas.

Michael pulls out a seat besides Thomas and sits next to him. In return, he is given a glare and flinches at Thomas's response. Immediately, Thomas starts to regret glaring at his favorite brother.

"The news was...truly upsetting..," begins Michael as he looks at Petunia and Sylvia. "Would you like to talk about it?"

"No," mumbles Thomas.

"I think it would help if—"

"Just leave me alone."

He can see hurt fill Michael's expression. Now Thomas feels even worse than before. Slowly, Michael stands up and pushes his chair back. He takes a look around Thomas's room and the edges of his mouth form a small frown.

_So much like Chris._

"You ought to clean up sometime..," he murmurs as he picks up a pile of Thomas's clothes.

Before he leaves Thomas's room, he sees a doll sitting crookedly at the edge of a shelf. It's larger than the others and sports a deep green riding dress. Green eyes twinkle in the dim light and its brown hair is gathered in a jaunty ponytail. With one hand, Michael picks it up.

"I think it would be better if you placed mother's dolls in a cleaner place. It doesn't seem safe here, with all your—"

"DON'T TOUCH HER!" shouts Thomas as he stands from his seat.

The sudden outburst from Thomas startles Michael so badly that his entire body trembles. It happens in slow motion, him turning around to look at Thomas in fear and the shaking of his hands. His fingers lose their grip around the doll's waist. Thomas can see the doll's beautiful green eyes closing as she reaches the ground, as if she was prepared to meet her fate on the cold tile floor. Her beautiful face hits the cream tiles first and then the rest of her body follows shortly after.

It's a small crack that soon spreads across her entire porcelain face. One second, her face is a cobweb of cracks. Then her face is just a hole with jagged edges. Her chest makes the majority of the terrible shattering sound. Her arms are just shards now. The leather boots she wears leads up to cracked and broken legs. Pieces of porcelain are dispersed throughout the floor and when he looks back at the doll, she is no longer there. A pile of broken shards and fabric stare back at him.

Looking back up at Michael, he realizes that his brother is still trembling in fear. And then time continues to normally flow again. Michael swallows hard and gives the doll's remains a quick glance. He looks back up at Thomas and his eyes fill up with tears. His chin trembles as he speaks.

"I...I'm sorry...I'm so so sorry...I'll fix her. I promise. She'll be as good as new," blubbers Michael as he kneels down and picks up the shards.

Before he knows it, his hand is cut and he's begun to bleed over the doll's dress. Thomas grimaces and walks briskly towards Michael. He grabs Michael's shoulder and glares at him.

"Rebecca was unique. She was specially made for mother and there's no other doll like her in the world! How could you do this to her?! From the looks of it, this can't even be repaired," snaps Thomas. "You'll need to find a replacement that's as good as her."

Tearfully, Michael shows Thomas his cupped hands. They're covered in cuts, all bloody and red. His emerald green eyes are sparkling with tears, his fluffy lashes bringing even more attention to them. Pink soft lips tremble, the white, straight teeth beneath complimenting one of Michael's best features. Unlike Christopher's nose, which was far too long and sharp for Thomas's tastes, Michael's was perfect. A few pink curls have gotten into his eyes and Thomas can almost imagine their soft and silky feel. Better than any porcelain doll's.

"Throw those shards in the rubbish bin," orders Thomas, his voice losing any trace of his previous outburst.

"B-but…"

" Do it, " commands Thomas.

Meekly, his younger brother does as he is told. Returning to Thomas, Michael gasps as Thomas grabs his chin. Large, pretty eyes. Soft, curly hair. Smooth, pale skin. Cheeks reddened from crying. Such a pretty face his brother possessed. If only it could stay like that forever.

"You're very cute. You know that?" breathes Thomas as he rubs his thumb across Michael's tearstained cheek.

"I..." Michael looks around wildly, panic fluttering in his chest.

"Here, let me show you something," says Thomas as he grabs Michael's arm and proceeds to drag him out the door.

"Wh...what are you doing..?" stammers Michael.

Michael swallows hard. He doesn't want to hurt his brother, but he will if he has to. Thomas turns back to him, his expression revealing nothing. Just as he feels Michael's muscles tense up to pull away from him, he gives Michael a small smile.

"A secret passageway," he replies.

Just like when they were younger. He feels Michael's arm relax and a flicker of excitement fill his eyes. The Arclight mansion was full of secrets, much to the delight of young Michael and Thomas. In the long hours spent waiting for their father to come home, the two had often explored the old Victorian mansion for its secrets. Decrepit passageways, rooms full of treasure, a dungeon...their youthful imagination spurred them on, despite finding only empty rooms and quiet passageways.

Now, Michael would have the pleasure of discovering another secret room. It was barely noticeable in the dim light of the hall across Thomas's room. A bump in the wall with some grooves were its only indicator. Besides it, a bookshelf featuring old dictionaries and encyclopedias sat, the worn books covered in a blanket of dust. Nonchalantly tipping towards a certain dictionary, he feels Michael stiffen.

"It's just like a movie, isn't it?" says Thomas, a wry smile playing on his features.

Michael's shaky hands begin to still. The wall begins to painstakingly slide back. Loud creaking is heard as its hinges pull open. Slowly, the shadows of another room can be seen. Michael peers over his brother's shoulder and gasps. Giving his brother an apologetic look, Thomas gently leads Michael into the small passageway.

"I'll need to oil that some time, don't I?" chuckles Thomas as he walks in first.

Once Thomas makes it through the narrow corridor with Michael in tow, he flicks on the switch. Cold air brushes against their cheeks. Blinking rapidly against the sudden bright light, Michael lets out another gasp when he can see again. Dolls, all bare and in all states of creation lay before him. They line the walls and shelves of the room, their empty expressions chilling to Michael. Unlike Thomas's room, this room is neat and organized. The cold tile floor beneath his feet was a great contrast compared to the plush mahogany-colored carpet in the halls. Looking around, he realizes that this room was equivalent in size to the library.

Drawers, chairs and tables were spread across the room. On the tables were doll limbs in all shapes and sizes. Tools were dispersed among them. Michael looks back up at the shelves and notices that Thomas's various projects were all lined up according to size. Some were the size of their mother's doll, while some were smaller. In a corner, he sees the headless body of a life-sized doll. The uneasy feeling creeps up his back again and he looks back at Thomas for reassurance. Pride fills his brother's expression and the sour mood that he was in before has completely vanished. Michael supposes that this was a good sign. At least it was better than getting in a physical fight.

They both knew that he would win anyways.

"Welcome to my workshop," declares Thomas. "It's where I go when I want some time alone and where I give in to my creative urges."

It's as if Thomas has become a delighted child, proudly showing off his newest playhouse. He squeezes Michael's hand and walks him to the center of the room. Now, it seemed as if all of the dolls were staring at them. The eyeless dolls in particular made Michael uneasy.

"When I first discovered this, it was a boorish sitting room. Perhaps our ancestors hosted illegal gambling events with their friends here. Unfortunately, the excitement had long gone when I discovered this place. It was covered in dust and cobwebs when I first came here. But with a bit of renovation, I was able to suit it to my needs. Quite impressive, isn't it?"

"Indeed..," says Michael as he continues to take in the sights.

"Why don't you stay here a bit and I'll fetch us some tea? I want to tell you some stories."

Not wanting to upset Thomas again, Michael forces a smile.

"Sure," he replies. "I'd love to hear them."

A smile fills Thomas's face as he walks out of the passageway. When he makes it back into the hallway, he tips back the dictionary. Hearing the wall creak, Michael looks away from a doll's limbless torso. As the door closes, his feeling of dread returns. What if Thomas just left him there to teach him a lesson? That had been his ultimate fear as a child and he couldn't help but fall back onto that fear.

Thomas could be kind. But he could also be terribly cruel. When they were younger, he had hidden Michael's favorite artifact for days and only returned it to him after he cried and pleaded. In some cases, children were the most cruel of human beings. Oftentimes they were too immature to truly understand the impact of their actions. Too innocent to realize that they were causing genuine pain and strife. He thinks back to the time Thomas had ripped off a butterfly's wings and laughed as the creature crawled across the floor.

No . Michael would hate it if he was left here, surrounded by eyeless sockets and headless bodies. Looking at the life-sized doll, he shivers when he sees how realistic it seemed. Despite its ball-jointed limbs, it still seemed as if it could start walking. There was no doubt about it. His brother was an artist.

Walking around for awhile, he's painfully aware of how loud his footsteps sound against the polished cement floor. He plunks himself down in a plush chair and closes his eyes. The lights buzz above him. Besides that, there is nothing but silence. And that is when his imagination begins to invade his reality. The dolls are whispering in his mind. Talking about him. Laughing. A shiver runs down his spine. _Stop it_, he thinks._ They're just dolls._

The dolls are laughing at him. They're whispering about how he should stay with them forever. Thomas's words echo in his mind and a cold sweat begins to fill his body. His brother's magenta eyes were shining with excitement. The grip Thomas had on Michael's chin had been firm and in a way, almost possessive. _Come join us, Michael,_ titter the dolls.

Immediately opening his eyes, he looks around. The half finished dolls are just as before. Silent. Taking in a deep breath, he tries to calm himself. He was too paranoid. That must be it. _They're just dolls, you silly goose,_ he chides. What could Thomas do to him anyways? Closing his eyes again, Michael pushes away his fearful thoughts. Calm down, he thinks as he takes in three deep breaths. He only wishes to have tea and a conversation. Just like the old days. Two of us in a newly discovered room, eating pilfered cookies and milk. Laughing. Having fun.

_But now you have both grown up._

The words send a pang through Michael's heart. They had missed quite a few years of their childhood. What he wouldn't give to have his father back. Or the teasing, cheerful Thomas. The one that didn't scream and barge into his room in the dead of the night begging for him to stop the pain. The one that wasn't scarred and manipulated by Tron. It was a selfish wish, he knew it was. But he couldn't help but miss the young boy he had often pursued down the halls of the Arclight mansion. The dolls are jeering at him for being so selfish.

_Tsk, tsk are not all great artists broken in one way or another?_

Before he can answer, he hears the wall sliding away with its telltale creak. Thomas enters with a tea service in his hands. It's then that Michael notices that the dolls have stopped whispering. With measured steps, Thomas makes his way towards Michael. Placing the tea on the table in front of them, he takes the seat facing his younger brother. Strangely, Michael notices that Thomas's tea has already been poured for himself.

"Will you ever finish all of these projects?" murmurs Michael.

Thomas gives him a nonchalant shrug and pours tea into Michael's teacup.

"Who knows? Most of these are just experiments for bigger projects."

He blows his tea and sips it slowly. Following suit, Michael looks around the room again. With Thomas's presence, the dolls have become less creepy. The tea isn't superb nor terrible and Michael takes another sip. Wrinkling his nose, he takes the spoon from the cup of sugar and puts three spoonfuls in his tea.

"Why did you bring me here?" asks Michael quietly as he stirs his tea.

His brother flashes him a radiant smile, his boyish charm shining through. Michael savors his tea and smiles uneasily. Well. At least the tea tasted a bit better.

"As I said before, I think you'd need to find a suitable replacement for Rebecca. And what better way to make a unique doll than to make one with me?"

Oh. Michael takes another sip of his tea.

"I don't know anything about making dolls,'' he begins timidly. "You'd just become cross with me."

Thomas shakes his head and refills Michael's teacup.

"Look, I'm sorry for shouting at you. Even if she was mother's favorite, she was just a doll. You'll help me make one that's ten times better. I think you're a very creative individual."

Michael takes a long gulp before continuing. Drat. He's forgotten to put in the sugar. Adding one more spoonful and stirring, Michael takes one tentative sip. Whenever he was nervous, he'd always end up rapidly drinking his tea in copious amounts. It was a habit he had never been able to rid himself of, but at least it wasn't terribly destructive. Giving Michael a reassuring smile, Thomas pours his brother another cup.

"Thank you," mumbles Michael.

"There's nothing to be worried about," soothes Thomas. "All you have to do is stay with me."

"What would I need to do? What would the doll look like?" asks Michael as he adds sugar to his third cup.

"I'm thinking something cute. Like you," says Thomas.

"Oh, stop it," chuckles Michael. "I'm far too old to be considered cute anymore."

At 19 years old, he was quite proud of the fact that he was the best fencer on the university team. With a chuckle, Michael leans back in his chair. It was more comfortable than he thought it was and his smile remains on his face.

"How do you feel about lolita dresses with all those cute ribbons and frills? I was thinking the dress could be modeled slightly off of Victorian fashion," proposes Thomas.

"It sounds absolutely lovely," says Michael dreamily. "But have you ever had one based off of the ancient Aztec culture? That would be something I would love to see."

A small smile fills Thomas's face when he sees Michael's dreamy expression.

"I feel really happy whenever I'm with you. Did you know that?" asks Thomas as he looks down at his tea.

It takes all of Michael's strength to muster up a smile in return. With those words, he feels his body relax. He takes another sip of his tea and feels his eyelids slightly droop.

"I'm so excited to make one with you," says Thomas gently.

"Are you?" asks Michael with a doubtful grin.

Thomas nods.

"Absolutely. The doll will be well taken care of. I'll dress her and play with her every day," promises Thomas.

"D'you promise?" slurs Michael.

Thomas raises his right hand.

"I promise."

When did Thomas get so close? Michael feels his brother lifting the teacup to his lips. Obediently, he sips.

"Now finish this cup," whispers Thomas.

He slowly drinks the liquid, his eyelids drooping lower and lower. Somehow, it had become difficult to think. Through his half closed eyes, he can see that Thomas's cup of tea has only been halfway drunk.

"How 'bout you finish..?" slurs Michael.

His brother gives him a sad smile and kisses Michael's cheek. He pours Michael another cup of tea and slowly tips it into Michael's parted lips. He knows that without the sugar, it tasted somewhat bland. He apologizes to Michael in his mind and continues to tip the tea in.

Almost there, a voice whispers in his head.

"You've grown up so much...I wish you could just be young and innocent again…," breathes Thomas.

Michael tries to laugh, but instead swallows a significant amount of tea. He wants to say the same thing but his body is wracked by coughs and for a moment, his mind is clear. Oh dear gods. Thomas had put something into his tea. Thomas had put something into his tea. His eyes widen at the realization, but before he can utter a sound, his eyes close and his body relaxes. The last word that escapes from his lips is a half-formed curse.

_Now, to begin._


	3. Incisions

Incisions

It will be a challenging task, cutting open the throat and removing the vocal cords. But it would be even more difficult to remove the appendages and attaching limbs that the body would accept. The words repeat in Thomas's mind, over and over again. His hands begin to shake but he knows he has to do this.

_I can't let him leave me. Ever._

His brother lays bare on the makeshift operating table, his chest rising and falling. The knives, scalpels, scissors, needles and thread were neatly arranged on the table besides Thomas, glimmering in the light. With a marker in his hands, Thomas begins to mark the area of incision on Michael's throat. Slowly, the IV drips anesthetic into Michael's body. It would hurt. He knew it would hurt. But it was necessary.

_He needs to stay with me._

Thomas's hand continues to shake and he curses under his breath. He shouldn't be nervous. Medial cut, then cut across the ends. Left to right. Two times. An "I" incision. Then fold back the skin. The old surgeon's textbook sits next to him, its open pages yellowed with age. Flecks of blood dot the pages from long gone operations. _Most likely illegal organ acquisition_, thinks Thomas as he looks down at his scalpel. The Arclights had had quite a history with the underground of Heartland. But he would use these tools that once caused pain to create art. Yes. This was art. Take deep breaths, Thomas. _Do what you have to do,_ whispers the voice in his head. _This will be your best doll. This is art._

_Soft pink curls, pale smooth skin, plump and healthy lips._ Yes. Michael would make a lovely doll. Steeling himself, Thomas picks up the scalpel and makes the first incision along the line he drew. Blood begins to bead the pristine skin and Thomas winces. It's only temporary, reassures Thomas to himself. It'll be over soon. Left to right. Left to right. He parts the flaps on Michael's throat and gulps at what he has to do next.

Taking in a deep breath, he picks up another scalpel. His brother's throat moved up and down with each breath he took. How beautiful it was, this miracle of life. Swallowing hard, Thomas begins the first incision.


	4. Milk at Tea Time

Milk at Tea Time

He wakes up disoriented and lightheaded. There's a burning pain in his throat and he winces. Slowly, he looks around and realizes that he's been strapped to a table, naked. From the lifeless stares of Thomas's incomplete projects, Michael knows that he is still in Thomas's workshop. Opening his mouth to call for help, he is unable to say a thing. Only air escapes from his throat.

Swallowing, Michael tries again to speak. The pain intensifies in his throat and he winces. _Did the tea do all of this?_ He looks around wildly, hoping that someone, anyone would come and save him. Tears brim in his eyes. It must have been a dream. Surely. Or a prank. One of Thomas's cruel pranks. Because he broke their mother's favorite doll. Yes, that must be it.

_You'll need to find a replacement as good as her._ Thomas's words echo in his mind. Once again, the unfinished dolls have started to whisper. _Stop it with that bloody imagination of yours!_ reprimands Michael in his head. Come join us, coos the dolls. We're lonely. Michael's breath catches in his throat and he wants to scream. But all that comes out is a panicked exhale. His breathing accelerates, intensifying the pain in his throat. _No, no, no...please stop..._ he begs to himself. Think of other things. Of Yuma. Of father. Of our family from before…

He struggles against his bonds to no avail. If he'd ever escape, he would make sure to lift more weights. His panicked breathing and the blood rushing in his ears are the only sounds he can hear. _Please don't let me end like this..._ Closing his eyes and clenching his teeth, Michael tries to wriggle his body and loosen the straps._ Surely someone will find me…What a bloody stupid prank._

An interminable amount of time passes until he hears the sound of the door creaking open. Could that be Christopher? _Thump thump thump._ No. Christopher didn't walk like that. His steps were more slow and elegant. Then it must be Thomas. Opening his eyes, Michael allows himself to swallow a bit, biting his lip at the pain that followed. When Thomas looms over him, Michael sees a glass of milk in his brother's hand. He tries to communicate his feelings of anger and panic through his facial expressions, but his brother merely shakes his head. Gingerly, he undoes the strap around Michael's arms and chest. With one hand, he sits Michael up with one hand supporting his back. There's a hint of sadness in Thomas's voice when he speaks next.

"The difficult part comes soon."

He angles his head to the life-sized doll in the corner. In the dim light, it looks even more horrifying than before. Its headless body seems to be ready to come to life at any moment, its limbs rattling as it walked. Michael looks away from it and receives a kiss on the forehead from Thomas. Rather than reassure him, the kiss brings a feeling of dread down Michael's back. Tears begin to bead in his eyes.

Looking into Thomas's eyes, he searches his brother's expression for any signs that this was all just an elaborate prank. Yet he sees no smile, no twinkling in his brother's eyes. His lips begin to tremble. Just what did he want?

"Shh..," soothes Thomas as he wipes away Michael's tears.

Tipping the glass of milk to Michael's parched lips, he makes sure that every single drop is consumed. Thomas's grim expression slowly changes to one of melancholy.

"You've grown up so much," begins Thomas. "Chris and I still can't believe you're 19 years old."

Michael struggles to look at Thomas and sputters on his milk a bit. Thomas withdraws the glass and gently dabs away the liquid from Michael's mouth. A sad smile creeps up Thomas's lips.

"But from now on, I won't let you grow any older."

The glass returns back to Michael's mouth. No matter how much he struggles, he knows that his strength is weakening. Thomas holds his head firmly, forcing him to drink the milk. Michael's eyelids begin to droop. When he looks down at the glass, he sees that no milk remains. His heart drops to his feet as darkness fills his vision. _Please don't let me die like this._


	5. Rose

Rose

Light, albeit a bit dim, wakes him. Groggily opening his eyes, Michael is first met by a shelf of dolls staring at him. They aren't the eyeless, limbless work in progresses of Thomas. These are the complete, beautiful ones. With their full heads of hair, elegant clothes and vibrant smiles, they put Michael's heart at ease. He turns his head and sees that all of the walls have shelves with dolls on them. Most of them are seated, but a few are posed specifically based on their outfit. The smiling horseman in the corner, for example, was in the process of putting the reins on his horse. It's then that he realizes where he is. _Ah _. His mother's doll room. When was the last time he had been here? He can barely remember…

Looking out at the sunlight flickering through the curtains, Michael smiles. Perhaps it had all been a dream. But when he swallows, the pain in his throat returns and panic returns to his chest. He tries to take a step forward and fights down panic as his legs remain still. Looking down, he sees that he is being held in place. Two silver clasps wrap around his torso and he frowns at the uncomfortable pressure against his flesh. When he tries to pry himself from the clasps, horror takes away his breath as his arms remain just as immobile as his legs. And then he realizes that he can't feel any of his limbs.

Trying to move his body, he can only feel down to his hips. Just what was he wearing, anyways? He looks down and sees a pink skirt trimmed with lace. He can't see his legs from over the skirt and feels the panic intensify. What must have been a hairband dug into his hair and he immediately dislikes the feel of it. Angling his eyes towards where his arm supposedly was, he sees a delicate hand gloved in white lace. Connected to a ball-joint. Which must have been connected to his shoulder. _Oh gods._

He wants to scream but when he tries to, only a broken exhale escapes his throat. _No, no, no _...Surely his arm was somewhere...So were his legs...Surely they were still there. Yes, soon he would be able to feel them again and he would be able to escape and confront Thomas. Or so that was what he told himself. The urge to panic and shake his body was overwhelming, yet he forced himself to remain calm. This was just a bad dream. Yes. That was all. He would be awake in no time.

Before he can think any further, Thomas opens the door with a tray of breakfast in his arms.

"Good morning my lovely darling!" calls Thomas cheerfully as he places the tray on the table. "How are we this fine morning?"

He frees Michael from the clasps and places him at the table. Turning to see what he had been freed from, Michael's stomach lurches when he sees the life-sized doll stand. Looking down at the assortment of pastries and fruit, Michael feels sick. He still can't move any of his limbs, yet his mind is beginning to clear. Perhaps...this wasn't a dream.

Noticing Michael's distress, Thomas rushes over and holds what is supposedly Michael's hand. His eyebrows are furrowed in worry and he affectionately strokes Michael's arm. None of this can be felt by Michael and he swallows hard. Thomas then moves down to the ball-jointed legs and bends them down to the floor. The pink skirt smoothes out and Michael can finally see his legs. His knees have been replaced by ball joints identical to the ones at his elbows. They looked just like the limbs from the doll in Thomas's workshop. Michael looks at them and then at Thomas in panic. He's met by a smile from his brother.

"You don't need limbs of flesh anymore. You're my precious doll now," says Thomas gently. "I'll give you everything you'll need."

He picks up the teapot and pours it into a delicate china teacup. Then he puts in three spoonfuls of sugar and stirs it around. _Clink clink clink. _The sound of the spoon hitting against the chinaware makes Michael sick to his stomach. Lifting the spoon to Michael's lips, Thomas looks at him affectionately.

"Just the way you like it. Isn't that right?"

With a heavy heart, Michael swallows. It's painful to do so and tears bead in his eyes. Spoonful by spoonful, he's made to swallow the tea. How had something he once loved so much become such torture? He looks at Thomas, begging him to stop.

"Not in the mood for tea? That's odd," notes Thomas as he sets the teacup down.

He picks up a pastry and offers it to Michael. Shaking his head, Michael continues to look at Thomas with pleading eyes. His brother looks at him in concern.

"Please. You need to eat. You haven't eaten in four days."

Four days? Was that how long he had been gone? Just how…? Didn't Christopher notice anything? Reluctantly, he opens up his mouth and accepts the pastry. Slowly, he begins to chew. It tastes too sweet but he can't protest. As it slides down his throat, he tries to let out a whimper. Tears slide down his cheeks and a choked sob escapes his throat. Thomas frowns and pats his cheek.

"It'll take awhile to get used to, but before you know it, you'll love it here," reassures Thomas.

Michael is forced to take another bite. He feels his tears trickle down his face and suppresses a hiccough. What did he do to deserve such a thing? The thought of never being able to walk or use his hands again terrifies him. He wants to break out into loud sobs, but he's only capable of choked exhales.

Thomas gently wipes away Michael's tears with a handkerchief. He holds Michael close to his chest and runs his hands down Michael's back. As he whispers reassurances into his brother's ear, he feels a twinge in his heart. Whenever Michael cried, his heart always hurt. He was the youngest and the need to protect him filled Thomas's heart. The warmth of his brother's body was soothing, save for the cold and hard new limbs.

Looking at his work, the ball jointed elbows shine white in the morning light. Setting Michael back in his chair, he readjusts Michael's arms. Folding them into his lap, Thomas resumes back to feeding him. He smiles when the sobbing subsides. Michael was still so beautiful, even after crying. Betrayed eyes, deep in mourning for lost limbs and trembling lips were such a lovely sight to Thomas. Michael's face, red from crying made him look even lovelier. It's then that Thomas is determined to have tea parties with this doll every day, both of them surrounded by flowers and music.

Picking up the teacup again, he gently lifts it to Michael's lips.

"It's your favorite," whispers Thomas. "Chamomile tea."

Michael sips, tears sliding down his cheeks.


	6. Into the Collection

Into the Collection

"I think it's about time Michael leaves his room. I understand that he's mourning...we all are...but..," Christopher trails off in the midst of his lunch, looking down at his plate.

Thomas pauses, midway through chewing. _Ah, yes. Michael._ The name of the person that used to be his brother. He made such an adorable doll, with his large eyes and slim body. His chest flutters with excitement at the thought of coming back to him.

"He'll come out eventually," murmurs Thomas. "I'm sure he will."

Christopher nods slowly, his eyes searching Thomas's expression.

"I'm just wondering...did you say anything to him on the day we received that note? I remember the last time I saw him, he was headed to your room to talk to you," muses Christopher.

"Yes, and I kicked him out," mutters Thomas.

"He was only worried about you..," murmurs Christopher.

Finishing up the remainder of his meal, Thomas swipes his hands clean and stands up.

"Some people need to care less."

His doll needed to be fed now. As he begins to walk upstairs, he's dismayed to find Christopher following him. Thomas turns around, grimacing.

"Shouldn't you be washing the dishes?" growls Thomas.

"That can wait. It isn't like they'll be going anywhere. Besides, our brother is a priority. He's been shut in his room for five days now and I'm beginning to worry."

Thomas nearly snorts at that. It was such a faulty lie. Surely Christopher would have suspected something. But the sudden departure of their father must have derailed his thought process.

"Late at night I hear him coming down to eat. He's probably fine," lies Thomas as he heads towards his room.

He feels Christopher's gaze on his back as he enters his room. Quickly, he locks the door. Walking towards the doll table, he removes Sylvia from her seat and places her on the shelf. Then he places a different doll in her place. There. Much better. The new doll was more cheerful than dour Sylvia and she seemed like a better companion for Petunia. He turns to face Michael in the corner of the room and smiles. He's fallen asleep on his stand, surrounded by his fellow dolls.

Such a precious thing...Slowly, Thomas walks towards Michael, not wanting to wake him up. Cupping his brother's face in his hands, Thomas feels a tremor go through Michael's body. His green eyes immediately open and fear fills them. As gently as possible, Thomas frees him from the doll stand and rests him on his bed, making hushing murmurs as he does so.

"Are you hungry?" he asks Michael.

He's answered by a slow shake of the head. Thomas sighs and brushes his finger against Michael's throat. The stitches still appear fresh against the red scar. Michael stiffens at the contact and tries to back away.

"Sshh..," hushes Thomas as he pulls Michael back. "What do you want?"

Michael's eyebrows are furrowed in worry. He mouths a few words to Thomas but Thomas shakes his head in incomprehension. With a finger, he pushes against Michael's chin and hushes him. Those pink lips that he loved so much curves into tremulous frown. Michael shakes his head and tries to back away from Thomas once more.

"Now, now...no need to get fussy..," says Thomas as he sits next to Michael, supporting his body.

More words are mouthed, more desperate than last time. A sigh escapes Thomas's lips and he shakes his head. He gives Michael a kiss on his cheek and straightens out his lacy skirts. Retying the ribbons of the bonnet, he pulls away and frowns at Michael's tearful expression. Before he can stop him, Michael mouths another set of words. This time, Thomas can understand it clearly and his posture shifts. Why?

"You don't understand, do you?" asks Thomas as he leans in closer.

He holds Michael's rouged cheeks in both of his hands. The fear has returned in his brother's eyes. Thomas's eyebrows are furrowed in worry, a weak attempt at a cheerful smile fills his face. When he speaks, his voice is low and shaky. Despite trying to keep his calm, desperation edges his words.

"I hated how you were growing up so fast. Soon, you'd leave us. I couldn't have that. I want you to be here, forever with me. And that's why...that's why I did this. So we can stay together. Forever. And you're so cute and pretty and I'll take care of you every single day, wash your hair, play with you and...and…"

The fear multiplies in Michael's expression. His entire body trembles in helplessness. Yet his arms and legs remain still, like how they should be. Thomas strokes the plastic limbs and looks up at Michael's panicked expression. No. Please no... mouths Michael as tears fill his eyes. Please…

Roughly, Thomas brushes the tears away with his thumb. His expression has grown firm.

"You'll learn to love this..," he murmurs.

The doll's face has become smeared with eyeliner. He clicks his tongue in annoyance and takes out a handkerchief to wipe its face. Off come the painted lips. Off comes the blush. Michael looks up at him in desperation, tears still streaming down his face. Thomas frowns and picks him up. He then places him at the small table, with Petunia and Sylvia. The miniature tea set looks up at Michael mockingly.

"Stop," commands Thomas as Michael lets out an airy sob. "_I said stop_, " repeats Thomas with a hint of anger.

Michael attempts to stifle his sobs as his arms and legs are readjusted. One hand is bent around a teacup. The other is resting in his lap. _Those weren't his limbs_. He looks in front of him and sees the cheerful smile of the new doll. It was as if she was welcoming him into the collection. His lips quiver and he swallows hard when he notices that Thomas is looking at him again. A hiccough escapes him but nothing else. After a few moments of silence, a smile spreads across Thomas's face.

"Much better. Now I will go get your lunch. Would you like that?"

A sob threatens to break free. Michael bends his head down and quickly nods. He doesn't look up until Thomas has left the room. When he looks in the nearby mirror, the tears threaten to spill over again. With his hair neatly arranged in curls, his clean little shoes and his frilly confection of a dress, he looked as if he was a mere decoration. Had Thomas placed him in a room full of stuffed toys and similar looking dolls, he would have fit in perfectly. For once, he's happy to be in Thomas's room. At least there wasn't as many reminders of what he was turned into as in the doll room.

He looks in the mirror again and is almost frightened by his expression. His eyes are glazed over in exhaustion. His cheeks slightly pink from crying. Yet his lips remain pink, his eyelashes still long and fluffy and his eyebrows still angled ever so prettily. It was like one of those melancholy porcelain dolls that were made to resemble bored Victorian children. The oversized bonnet didn't help, nor did the room's antique furnishings.

Condemned to an eternal childhood. Yes. That was what Thomas had done to him. A never ending fairytale of tea parties and forced smiles. Petunia looks at him with her usual smile, as if she were reassuring him that he would be just as well-loved as her. The thought runs a shiver down Michael's spine. Every day he would be dressed, bathed and fed however Thomas pleased. And he would be aware of every single moment, unable to move or say a thing. Just like a doll.


	7. Into the Lion's Maw

Into the Lion's Maw...

Five days. He supposes that's a little suspicious. But grief can bring forth unexpected actions. With the back of his fist, Christopher gently raps on Michael's door.

"Michael? Are you alright? It's been five days and I would like to know if you are still in your room or not," says Christopher.

Silence answers him. After waiting for a few more moments, Christopher sucks in a deep breath. When was the last time he had comforted any of his brothers…?

"I'm coming in," he announces as he turns the knob.

As always, Michael's room is bursting with artifacts. With this many things in his room, one would expect it to be extremely disorganized. But it never was. The artifacts were either in display cases or on shelves, neatly labelled and grouped according to time period or place of origin. In the center of it all lay Michael's bed, always impeccably made. This time, it was no different. Frowning, Christopher opens up Michael's curtains. He stifles a sneeze as dust fills the room.

No. Michael would never let such a thing happen. Arguably, his room was one of the cleanest in the Arclight mansion.

"Michael?" calls Christopher, raising his voice.

He looks around the room, looking in corners and behind large pieces of furniture. Panic begins to fill his chest. No...no...Michael couldn't have run away. He couldn't have! Walking over to Michael's desk, he sees the bracelet on the polished wood and gulps. His brother would never go anywhere without his communication device. Opening up the drawers in Michael's desk, he finds that everything is still as neatly organized and clean as ever. Running over to the closet, he opens up the doors and looks inside. Not a single clothes item off the hook. He wasn't that surprised. His brother often borrowed his friends' clothes during impromptu sleepovers when he was younger. Perhaps that habit still followed him.

Christopher gives the room a once-over again, the panic increasing with each time he called Michael's name to no reply.

"Michael! Answer me!" shouts Christopher.

Still, there is nothing. Closing Michael's door behind him, he runs into Thomas, heading down the stairs.

"Michael isn't in his room!" he says, fighting to keep down the panic in his voice. "Do you have any idea where he could be…?"

If Thomas found out that Michael had run away...The thought brings a shiver through Christopher's body. They had already lost their father. If they lost their younger brother…who knew how Thomas would cope? But instead of worry, surprise fills Thomas's expression.

"He's not? Maybe check the other rooms," suggests Thomas as he proceeds to walk down the stairs.

"Will you help me?" asks Christopher as he sees Thomas continue to walk away.

"Sure. I just...need to take care of some business."

Christopher watches Thomas's back recede. Frustration wells up in his chest.

"What could ever be more important than looking for you brother?!" he snaps. "Come back here!"

Slowly, Thomas turns around.

"He's fine. I know," he says calmly.

"How?!"

"I just do."

It takes all of Christopher's self control to not shout at Thomas in frustration. He balls his hands into fists and walks back down the hallway, beginning his search. The first room is their father's room. When he opens the door, a cloud of dust attacks him and he sneezes. A musty smell permeates his senses, the remainders of their father's cologne before the betrayal. The smell brings back a plethora of memories and Christopher smiles a bit. How happy they had been.

The windows are grimy with dirt, the bedsheets most likely containing a storm of dust. No one had been in this room for years. After returning from Barian World, Tron had no need to sleep. Anger and hatred fueled him on, eliminating any form of activities that wouldn't contribute to his revenge. It was eerie how it seemed as if his father was about to step in at any time, his warm voice filling the walls. How he would lament the state of his room! Looking around, Christopher is sure that he is the first person who has come here in years. No. Michael would not be in here, amidst the dirt.

He leaves the room and its memories for another day, closing the door behind him. A stretch of doors fills the hallways and he prepares himself. If Michael still had not been found by the end of today, he would call the Tsukumos. And then the authorities if Michael was not with Yuma.

It isn't until three hours later that he's finished searching the upper floor for his younger brother. Yet there is still nothing. Thomas had promised to search the basement after

dinner and Christopher sighs. Dinner. Perhaps he should cook Michael's favorite meal in hopes of luring him out.

* * *

They eat in silence, the third plate at the table still untouched. Christopher looks at Thomas in frustration. How could he be so calm? He finishes the rest of his food, the sound of his fork scraping against the dishes the only sound heard. Once he's finished, he dabs at his mouth with the napkin from his lap and stands up. Thomas looks at him nonchalantly.

"I have done my duty for today. Now it's your turn to wash the dishes," he says as he pushes back his chair.

Thomas is about to roll his eyes until Christopher stops him with a glare. He holds his brother's gaze for a few moments and then turns away with a grunt. Finishing the rest of his food, he hears Christopher walk upstairs to shower. The eldest Arclight turns on the lights to the stairs and frowns. The photo Thomas knocked over a few days ago hangs crookedly on the wall, its glass covering cracked. He'd have to reframe it sometime.

At night, the upper floor of the Arclight mansion seemed straight out of a gothic novel. The multiple decorations and portraits of ancestors cast long shadows on the wallpaper. Even if one turned on all the lights in the hallway, there would still be corners where the lights would not be able to reach. At night, he notices the peeling wallpaper more. Same with the fraying carpet. There's fingerprints on the windows. Pulling the curtains closed, he notices that the door to Thomas's room has been left ajar. The only place I haven't bothered to look, he thinks as he approaches the door. He hesitates before entering, feeling utterly stupid. If Michael was in here, wouldn't have Thomas told him? Nonetheless...

When he enters the room, he turns on the lights and grimaces. He only entered Thomas's room whenever it was necessary. And now he remembers why. Unlike his and Michael's rooms, Thomas's room was disorganized. Clothes littered the floor here and there. His desk was covered in fan letters that he would never reply to. Why he never discarded any of them was a mystery to Christopher. Perhaps his fans' words of encouragement and love warmed him a bit, even if they had no idea of his true character. Like a weak flame, he would be warmed for a few moments, but then the biting cold would return.

_Such a fate is Thomas's_, muses Christopher melancholically.

Unlike the rest of the room, the dolls lining the shelves are immaculate. In the middle of Thomas's room is a white table with a lace cloth. It stands out like a pristine beacon in the middle of the ocean of chaos and Christopher is drawn towards it. On his way through, he picks up a few articles of clothing and makes a note to do the laundry tomorrow. The table features an elegant tea set, crafted to fit the porcelain dolls' hands, save for one. Since when did Thomas get such a large doll? It seemed almost as large as Michael. At the sight of its intricate dress, newly polished shoes and bonnet, Christopher's displeasure deepens. He needs to tell Thomas not to spend so much on such frivolous things.

As he faces the doll, unease creeps up his back. It has pink and brown curls, just like his brother. When he sees its face, he lets in a sharp breath. _Oh yes_, he should definitely tell Thomas to spend less on such fripperies. Making a doll that resembled his younger brother was going too far. The doll's eyes are closed, but Christopher knows that they will be green when opened. It's a fine piece of work, he must admit. But it looks too realistic to be a doll and he finds that fact irksome. Its ball jointed arms are neatly arranged on the table, one hand cupped around a tea cup.

Hesitantly, Christopher touches the arms. Plastic. But the doll's throat seems to be made of a different material...Were those stitches? When he lifts his hand away from the arms, the doll's eyes open. Stifling a scream, Christopher jumps back, his heart in his throat. Emerald green eyes look at him in surprise. The doll's lips open and mouth at him. _Brother?_ Its lips tremble and nausea fills Christopher's chest.

That's no doll. That's truly Michael. He quickly unties the bonnet and runs his hand down Michael's face.

"Are you alright?" he whispers panickedly. "What did he do to you? I've been looking for you all day and…"

Michael looks at him with pain in his eyes and shakes his head. He looks down at his throat and at his limbs in misery. Gently unbuttoning the front of the dress, Christopher sees the full extent of the stitches up and down Michael's throat. With trembling hands, he peels down one shoulder of the dress. His blood runs cold as the flesh stops and is replaced by a ball joint. Shakily putting back the dress on Michael's shoulder, Christopher hesitantly feels Michael's stockinged legs. Plastic. Running his hand up the leg, it's completely solid and cold. It isn't until he reaches Michael's hips that he can feel flesh again. Tears well in Christopher's eyes. His younger, precious brother. Mutilated.

He gives Michael a brief kiss on the forehead and holds him close. Running his hand up and down Michael's back in a soothing motion, his thoughts race wildly in his mind. No...Thomas wouldn't have done such a thing...would he? This...this was impossible. With difficulty, he lifts Michael up and seats him on Thomas's unmade bed.

"It's going to be better soon. I...I promise," he vows to Michael as he musters up a weak smile.

Michael looks at him in doubt. How could have Christopher forgotten? Michael was 19 years old. But to him, Michael would always be the little boy in need of guidance. No matter how old he was. As his older brother, he was supposed to protect him. Kneeling down, he runs his hands down Michael's arms and shivers. He still can't believe his eyes. He doesn't even know what he's promising. Thomas couldn't have done this. He would never harm Michael. Not voluntarily.

Christopher's smile wavers as he sees Michael's eyes widen. Before he can turn around, he feels something hard shatter against his head. Darkness quickly envelopes his senses.


	8. And into the Realm of the Dead

...And Into the Realm of the Dead

_Oh, poor Sylvia._ The remains of the fair-haired doll lay shattered amongst Christopher's hair, blood already beginning to dye the silver strands. He had run out of options and panicked. Anyone could have seen that. He couldn't have allowed Christopher to take his newest doll away from him. Looking up, he can see the absolute horror in Michael's face. His painted lips are parted open in an "o" and his eyes are wide in fear. Trembling in fear, Michael can no longer hold his body up and falls on his back.

Rushing to Michael, he pushes Michael back against the wall and seats him up. Fear continues to fill Michael's face and he looks down at Christopher.

"I had to do this," presses Thomas. "He was going to take you away from me."

He looks down at his brother's unconscious form. _Those long limbs, that pale skin, that long hair_... The shards of Sylvia are almost the same color as Christopher's pale hand . He wonders what kind of doll his brother would make and immediately shakes his head. _No._ He couldn't do that. Not after what he had done to Michael. The memory of his bloodstained hands and the arms and legs preserved in formaldehyde fill his mind and he shivers. _No._

_E_legant...cold_ and refined. Regal..._ the whispers in the back of his mind rise to the front. The artist in him is eager for a new project, but his other side, the Arclight brother side, vehemently protests against this idea. But he had to do something with his elder brother on the floor, bleeding out beneath his feet.

_It's either to the workshop or the dump_, whispers the artist.

He couldn't let such beauty go to waste.

_Maybe you could explain to him_, suggests the Arclight brother._ Actually, who am I kidding? It's Chris._

The workshop it is.

Although his brother's face is covered by hair, he can imagine his proud expression. Looking at the other porcelain dolls, they seemed to mourn Sylvia's loss. Inspiration strikes him and he suppresses the protesting voice inside of his mind. _A queen._ That's what his newest doll will be.

Ideas flood his mind, from the dresses the new doll would wear to the construction of the delicate porcelain limbs. This would be a suitable replacement for Sylvia, he just knows it. A small smile creeps up his lips. Michael looks at him warily. Swinging Christopher over his shoulder, he hears a soft groan from his brother. After a few steps, Thomas is forced to readjust Christopher and take in a few deep breaths. Despite his lanky exterior, Christopher is a lot heavier than Thomas expected. Painstakingly, he carries his brother into the workshop and lays his body onto the table.

Blood still trickles down Christopher's head. At this moment, Christopher almost seems dead compared to the lively shade of red his hair was dyed. Grabbing a nearby cloth, Thomas wipes away what he can. He wrinkles his nose in distaste as the metallic smell fills the room. He'd have to saw off those beautiful limbs, won't he? Those lovely, delicate arms and legs. How he loved it whenever Christopher played the piano! His long fingers seemed to dance all over the keys, tapping out an exquisite melody. But if he replaced them with porcelain, he knows that he would never be able to witness such a beautiful sight again.

But he can't let Christopher run away and take Michael with him. He'll need to make the porcelain limbs even better than Christopher's own arms of flesh and blood. They would need to be lifelike, but still recognizable as a porcelain doll's. Every finger would need to be sculpted with utmost precision. Not a single bend would be out of place. The nails would need to be identical. Teardrop shaped, just like Christopher's current set of nails. And there would be no joints. One regal pose for the rest of his life. The thought of a challenge ignites Thomas's heart. Strapping his brother down, he pulls out a pair of gloves and takes a deep breath. This would be a doll not only for him, but for other dolls. Their queen. He'd need to make this perfect.


	9. Beached Whale

Beached Whale

Slowly, Christopher opens his eyes. A sharp pain fills the back of his head and he lets out a cry. Where was he…? Looking around, he realizes that he has never been in this room. _Well that's strange,_ he notes. _Almost 20 years in this house and there's still places I haven't been in._ When he tries to get up, he sees the straps that bind his body and…

His arms and legs are nowhere to be seen. He can feel his heart beat faster and the bile rising towards his throat. All he can see are his hips and his shoulders. _Oh gods. It can't be true._ This must be some nightmare derived from his terrible cooking. It just can't be true. The memories of Michael resurfaces and he lets out a whimper. Was that when he started dreaming? Did he fall asleep at the table?

He remembers how Michael's eyes widened in their final moments. And then something heavy crashing against his head. In spotty visions, he remembers the sensation of being carried over someone's shoulder. And then...a saw. Something cutting away at him. A whimper escapes from his throat. No. This couldn't be true. This can't be his fate. Swallowing, he calls for Thomas. When only echoes answer him, the panic multiplies.

"Thomas…! Please…! Wherever you are! Anyone?!" shouts Christopher.

What if he was abandoned here, left to die just like an abandoned toy? He continues to shout for a few minutes, but the only result is a parched throat. With only the sound of his labored breathing, Christopher's mind begins to drift back into the moments before he was knocked out. Before he fainted, someone—most likely Thomas—had hit him on the back of his head with something that broke. That's why the back of his head hurt so much. It was right after he found Michael, whose limbs had been replaced with plastic ball-jointed ones. As if he were a doll.

The panic further increases and he prepares to shut down. Returning to the darkness would mean not needing to think. Or panic. Not needing to meet the unsavory fate that awaited him. Perhaps even waking up. And then he hears the door open. Struggling to see who it is, Christopher can only pray that someone is there to save him.

"You're awake," says Thomas.

Christopher feels his heart plummet. Awake. This was real. Rounding the table, Thomas gazes down at his brother.

"What have you done?" whispers Christopher, no longer able to control his panic. "Why are you doing this to me?! Have you any idea what this could do to us?! Send us to a hospital immediately and perhaps they'll—"

_There he goes_, sneers a contemptuous voice in Thomas's head. Always commanding him, back and forth with that imperious nature of his. Thomas looks at his brother's torso struggling uselessly against the straps in contempt. It's fitting, the doll that he will be made into. A queen, always commanding, always in a position of power. But after this, Christopher will never tell him what to do again. Instead, it will be Thomas who will be dictating his every move.

"Do you hear me?!" snaps Christopher, his face red in anger. "THOMAS!"

"It'll take a few weeks for me to perfectly sculpt your new limbs," says Thomas quietly. "They'll be made of the finest porcelain."

Christopher swallows hard, his anger threatening to fizzle out as the fear creeps in. He can't be reduced to a mere doll. He can't be forced into this. This shouldn't be happening to him. His chin begins to tremble and he blinks back his tears. Noticing his brother's distress, Thomas gives him a reassuring smile.

"They'll love you. You'll be their queen. I'll buy you the finest dresses and style your hair every day. How would you feel about looking like Marie Antoinette? You're already so lovely that it won't be that hard..," reassures Thomas cheerfully.

The tears threaten to spill over but Christopher refuses to cry in front of Thomas. This still felt too awful to be reality.

"Why are you doing this to us…?" he breathes.

Thomas's smile falters and he strokes his brother's cheek.

"So you can't run away from me again," he replies quietly.

He would never forget that day. The sun was setting on a cold autumn day. It was almost winter, a time he had always looked forward to. But that year was different. Dead leaves stirred about on the cobblestone streets. Orange dyed the buildings and the clocktower in the background chimed for 5 o'clock. _Ding. Dong. Ding. Dong. Ding..._ And his brothers were being led away by the orphanage's manager. The urge to run towards them and reassure their crying faces was overpowering, but he forced himself to remain there.

Not a single tear was shed in front of them, for that had always been his personal rule. He was the eldest brother. He must be strong in times of adversity in order to set a good example. Of course, when he no longer heard the cries of Thomas and Michael, he had immediately burst into tears and cried himself to sleep on a park bench.

"I didn't have a choice…!" protests Christopher as he recalls the painful memory. "If I could have taken you two with me, I would have but—"

"You didn't," says Thomas, his voice barely above a whisper.

Christopher closes his lips and presses them into a thin line in order to stop them from trembling. He wants to scream his throat raw in frustration, but that would only expose himself further to Thomas. A moment of silence passes by with Thomas staring down at Christopher as if he were an insect under a magnifying glass. The feeling of being observed sends shivers crawling up Christopher's spine. He turns his head away and tries to keep the tears at bay.

_Skkkrrt._ The scratching sound of metal against metal sends a chill down Christopher's spine. Reluctantly, he turns back to Thomas and sees the scissors gleaming in his brother's hand.

"What are you—"

Quietly, Thomas takes a lock of Christopher's hair in his hand and caresses it with his two fingers. He looks down at it with a tender expression and places it on his lips.

"It's so soft and silky. I always admired how carefully you tended to it. Don't worry. I'll make sure to give it the exact same care as you did," promises Thomas.

With the scissors, he cuts the lock of hair and leaves the room without another word.


	10. Pastel-Colored Carousel

Pastel-Colored Carousel

"Aren't you excited? Soon, the three of us will be together again," says Thomas as he pours Michael his favorite tea.

Michael looks down at the amber liquid in silence. First him, now Christopher. No one deserved this. What if Thomas grew bored of them? What would happen then? Would they be placed on shelves and left to rot? The thought of such a thing made Michael want to scream. Thomas's temper was also another thing to fear. If he showed his disgust too much, Thomas would get angry. And that would lead to nothing good. The best option was just to smile and nod, no matter what he did to him.

He looks at Thomas and gives him a small smile, despite the fear that was eating away at him. This was their family now. Sometimes, he even wonders if Thomas still saw him as Michael and not a doll. He sees Thomas happily eating a cookie with the sunlight streaming behind him and is reminded of the past. The same boyish smile was on his brother's face, showing off his dimples. Not much has changed, now that he thinks of it. Thomas was still a bit of a child at heart, but now with a bit of a darker undertone.

"The new doll is going to be a queen. Just like Marie Antoinette. I'm going to fill a whole closet full of fancy dresses and shoes. She'll be so beautiful alongside you, I just can't wait," says Thomas giddily. "You two will have so much fun together…"

Michael's smile wavers. The thought of Christopher being imprisoned just like he was terrified him. He had seemed so strong, never allowing anything to affect him. But he knows that this would break Christopher just like it had broken him. His eldest brother, once a pillar he had leaned against for support—broken. Just what has his world come to?

The teacups clink against the china plates and the sound of Thomas chewing his food fills the room. After every few bites or so, he would feed Michael from his own plate. It was degrading, being fed like a child but what else could he do? The other option was to starve, but Thomas would never allow that. He affectionately strokes Michael's face and looks into Michael's eyes. Sadness fills them, despite the smile pasted on Michael's lips. In response, Thomas frowns.

"Are you alright?" he asks quietly.

_My limbs have been sawed off and replaced with doll limbs. Every day I am put into uncomfortable dresses and forced to endure your unwanted displays of affection. Oh and have I forgotten to mention that I'm expected to be happy about this?! Bloody hell…! What kind of brother would do this?! _thinks Michael. Had he not feared for his life, he would have angrily mouthed at Thomas until all the anger in his heart had drained. But he merely closes his eyes and shakes his head. To distract Thomas, Michael opens his mouth in a plea to be fed.

"You're just hungry?" chuckles Thomas with a relieved smile. "Alright then."

The pastry enters Michael's mouth and he takes a bite out of it. Cream smears his chin and he blushes involuntarily.

"You're so cute," purrs Thomas as he swipes away the cream with his finger.

He licks the cream from his finger and kisses Michael's cheek. He doesn't see Michael's grimace as his lips brush against Michael's skin. The unwanted kissing and touching had increased the past few days, much to Michael's discomfort. Before, Thomas only kissed him on the forehead as a show of reassurance. Those kisses always made Michael feel better, especially when he was ill. It was a sign that Thomas cared for him.

But these kisses were of a different nature. He sensed the need in them. The lust. Every time Thomas did it, it took all of Michael's self control to not turn away in disgust. It wouldn't take long for Thomas to move onto his lips. Often, Thomas had noted their plumpness and healthy color. Every morning, he would run the lipstick over Michael's lips with the utmost care. Whenever he was dissatisfied, he would dab away the lipstick and start all over again. They're your best feature. I need to make sure they look perfect, said Thomas once when Michael rolled his eyes.

Thomas pulls away from him and Michael finally takes in a breath of air. Unease crawls up and down his back as he's continued to be fed. Playfully, Thomas trails his hand up Michael's plastic thigh. Although Michael can't feel it, he can see it and it's impossible to mask his disgust. Another gob of cream drips on Michael's chin and he looks at it in distaste. Instead of clearing it away with his finger, Thomas leans close to Michael's face and licks it away. The wet tongue on his cheek makes Michael immediately pull away, his heartbeat pounding. No. This was wrong.

He looks at Thomas with eyes wide in shock and disgust. His look is returned by Thomas's smirk. The unease multiplies in Michael's chest and he straightens his back. _No_, he mouths. _Stop_.

"Why?" chuckles Thomas as he swipes away the rest of the cream with his thumb.

His tongue darts out and licks away the cream, relishing Michael's expression. He feeds Michael the rest of the pastry and has him drink his tea. Amidst those activities, Michael can still feel the wet rasp of Thomas's tongue on his cheek. Hesitantly, he chews the pastry and swallows. It's too sweet. Just like his outfit. Just like his face. From his reflection in the window, he can see how large his eyes are, emphasized by the eyeliner and pink eye shadow. Although some of his lipstick has stained the teacup, his lips are still a visible shade of pink. With the blush on, it's hard to tell that all the blood from his face has drained.

Today, Thomas has chosen a frilly bow to adorn his head. Michael notes how his hair has grown longer and how he should have it cut soon. It's more curlier than usual, no thanks to the curling iron Thomas used this morning. If Thomas ever has the intention to burn me, I wouldn't even have the ability to scream , he thinks as he is made to sip his tea. The lace collar scratches against his neck and he would do anything just to take it off. Actually, he'd have given everything he owned just to get out of the outfit Thomas forced him into.

The dress he wears is a light shade of pink, with frilly petticoats and dessert patterns over the fabric. The sleeves drip with lace and his hands are gloved with a matching set of pink gloves. But that wasn't what irritated him. It was what was beneath the dress that he disliked the most. The underwear he had to wear was nothing like what he was used to. It pressed into corners he disliked thinking about and was far too tight against his skin. At the end of the day, he saw the angry red marks that scored his skin that was met with dismissal by Thomas.

_You'll grow into it_, was what he had said. More like starve into it . With the corset secured tightly against his torso, he could barely breathe nor eat. And he knew that Thomas had done that on purpose. After all, he was Thomas's precious doll. He had to keep an ideal figure in order to maintain his innocent and adorable appearance. His lip curls at the thought. Everything was fake. A fake doll, a fake master, a fake childhood and a fake innocent fantasy. There was nothing innocent about what Thomas had done to him, he knows.

His brother had been good at keeping his urges under wraps for the last few weeks but they were beginning to unravel. Every look, every motion was a pretense. In the end, all Thomas wanted was him to pay for breaking their mother's favorite doll. It was incredibly stupid, but what could Michael do?

Thomas grabs his chin and pulls him closer. Michael stiffens and presses his lips into a thin line.

"Oh don't be like that…," teases Thomas as he tickles Michael's chin.

Michael glares at him, his lips still closed. He refuses to give in, not even blinking as Thomas came closer to him. No longer can his disgust lay hidden and it shows in his expression. Frowning, Thomas attempts to open Michael's mouth with his thumb.

"Don't you love me?" he whispers.

This game again. Whenever Michael showed resistance, Thomas would always feign being hurt. _Don't you love me?_ The words taste bitter in his mouth. _I love you, but not like this_, Michael wants to say. But Thomas would just shake his head and insist that Michael didn't. Thomas's expression hardens and he strokes Michael's cheek.

"You're just a doll now. Don't worry about it," he says.

The hand on Michael's face has become possessive. Michael pulls away and shakes his head. He continues to glare at Thomas. The expression on Thomas's face darkens. His other hand darts out and grabs the other side of Michael's face. Forcibly, he pulls Michael towards him.

"I love you. And you need to love me too," he murmurs as he kisses Michael on the lips.

He can't turn away from the desperate kiss. Despite all of his struggling, he remains where he is. Nearly suffocating from this, Michael tries to spit Thomas out. Immediately, Thomas pulls away. Anger has filled his expression. He looks at Michael for a few moments, making Michael start to regret what he has done. Without warning, he pushes Michael and the chair onto the floor with a crash. The impact of the chair's back against Michael's head is jarring and he lets in a sharp gasp. Thomas looks down at him, a grimace on his face.

"You're so ungrateful..," he hisses.

Turning away, he begins to walk out of the room. Lying in a sprawled heap with his skirts all around him, Michael's eyes follows Thomas. One of his plastic limbs are pointed towards his older brother, as if begging for its master to come back.


	11. Silver Strands

Silver Strands

"I'm about to sculpt your arms," announces Thomas as he enters the room.

"That's wonderful," mutters Christopher.

A frown fills Thomas's face. Three weeks of mapping out the proportions, sketches, basic modeling and selecting the correct shade of porcelain had filled the last few days. Not to mention preserving the amputated limbs in formaldehyde for reference. He had expected Christopher to be a lot more grateful. Thomas narrows his eyes as he rounds the table. He looks down at Christopher and his brother returns his look with an aggressive glare.

"Let me go," demands Christopher. "You're committing a crime here. Let me go and perhaps we'll be able to sort this out peacefully."

"We should start working on basic refinements," begins Thomas as he takes out a rectangular box. "Your eyes, for one."

A flicker of panic fills his brother's face for a few moments. When Thomas shows the contents inside of the box, he smiles as he sees his brother relax. Silver eyelashes, long and fluffy for the top and bottom of the eyes carefully lay in the velvet lining of the box. Asides from the preparation of the limbs, he had painstakingly glued and sewn the hairs together from the lock of hair he had received from his brother. He takes the first eyelash and rests it on his brothers right eye. Then he takes the needle and thread from the table besides him.

"Th-Thomas…," stammers Christopher. "What are you planning to do…?"

"Hold still. You don't want the needle to go into your eye, do you?"

Christopher begins to struggle against his restraints, the straps squeaking in protest. Grimacing, Thomas grabs a cloth and shoves it into his brother's mouth. With rough hands, he stills his brother's movements. Readjusting the eyelash, he lifts the eyelid away from the eye. Fsshk. With a needle, he slowly begins to move the thread through the eyelid. A muffled scream answers him and he can see the raging panic filling his brother's expression. It's painstaking work, being careful not to pierce his brother's eye. After awhile, the screaming stops, replaced by labored breathing and whimpers.

"You'll be beautiful..," promises Thomas as he finishes the first upper eyelid.

His brother vehemently shakes his head, blood beginning to trickle down his face. Muffled protest begins as Thomas wipes disinfectant over the left eyelid and puts another piece of thread through the needle. Gently, he wipes away Christopher tears and places an eyelash on his left eyelid. When he pierces the left eyelid, Christopher answers him with another muffled shout. With the same level of precision as the first, Thomas sews the eyelash onto the delicate, bloody skin. Once he's done, he cuts the thread and ties it at the end. He mops up the beads of blood on both eyes and brushes away the tears mixed with blood.

He takes a few moments to admire his handiwork, playfully brushing the long lashes a few times. Pain flashes across Christopher's expression each time he does so. Sighing, Thomas moves onto the bottom lashes. They aren't as long as the first ones, but would compliment them. Leaning closer to Christopher, he pushes the eyelash close to the bottom of Christopher's eye. Christopher protests with another shout, but Thomas shushes him. He strokes what remains of Christopher's shoulder and smiles.

When he makes the needle pierce through Christopher's bottom eyelid, he looks down at the blood and tears staining Christopher's face. It couldn't be helped. No one had ever said making beautiful dolls was easy. He readjusts Christopher's head and continues to sew the eyelash to Christopher's bottom lid. When he's done with both eyes, he cradles Christopher's body in his arms, comforting his brother for the first time in his life.

"I love you, my queen."


	12. Like When We Were Younger

Like When We Were Younger

It's so uncomfortable to open his eyes now. The lashes weigh them down and the sting of the needle still shoots up every time he opens them. That was why Christopher didn't bother to look at Thomas the following visit.

"I've started with the first arm," declares Thomas proudly. "Your arms were always so delicate and long. I always enjoyed it whenever you played the piano. It's too bad you won't be able to ever do that again."

A pang fills Christopher's chest. From beneath his eyelashes, he looks at Thomas with a pained expression. Thomas looks down at him in pity and strokes his face. Christopher turns his face away and curls his lip. It was humiliating, being reduced to nothing but a torso. Not getting the sign, Thomas continues to touch Christopher, running his fingers through his hair.

Every morning, he would take time to brush the silver locks with care. It was always so silky and long, now even longer than what remained of Christopher's body. Every other day, he would wash the hair with Christopher's favorite shampoo, reassuring him that his hair was being taken care of just like before.

"Please stop touching me," murmurs Christopher.

Thomas pauses running his fingers through his brother's hair. He walks over to Christopher's side and looks at his brother's expression. Although it did not betray anything to others, he knew exactly what Christopher was feeling. His brother doesn't meet his eye, instead angling them past him. All color has drained from his face. No feeling can be determined from his lips, which are in a neutral expression. Along with that, his eyebrows are also set straight above his eyes.

"You're angry at me," says Thomas.

Not even an accusation. But a statement. Even when he was young, Christopher rarely showed his anger. Instead, his features would remain eerily neutral and he would grow silent. But it was like the placid surface of a lake. Beneath, there was a world of churning anger. It wouldn't take much for the placid surface to turn into furious waves, if one knew how.

At Thomas's statement, Christopher's eyebrows slightly narrow.

"I wonder why," he mutters.

Hesitantly, Thomas strokes Christopher's cheek with the back of his hand. His skin is hot to the touch.

"Don't," hisses Christopher.

"We're similar, if you think about it," begins Thomas.

He sees Christopher's eyes widen and the corners of his mouth turn downward.

"You just have more self-control than I do," continues Thomas. "But if you peel that back, you're just as broken as I am."

Christopher's adamsappel bobs up and down as he swallows. Color begins to fill his cheeks. Thomas knows that deep down, Christopher looked down on him. The thought of comparing him to Thomas was repulsive. Thomas was disobedience, anger and unruliness. Christopher was obedience, stoicness and maturity. They were nothing alike. Or, that was what Christopher liked to tell himself.

"You want to lash out, don't you?" says Thomas. "Scream at me. Kick me. But you can't."

Christopher's mouth is pressed into a thin line. There's a slight trembling in his shoulders. With one finger, Thomas runs it down Christopher's pale chest. The sheet that covers Christopher's lower regions remains untouched as Thomas lifts his finger.

"Why did you do this to me? To us?" whispers Christopher.

Thomas leans close to Christopher's ear. He smells Christopher's shampoo and a feeling of calm washes over him.

"Because I want to keep you here with me forever," says Thomas quietly.

"I didn't leave you because I wanted to!" shouts Christopher as he thrashes against the restraints. "How many times must I tell you that…?!"

"Yet even after you came for us, you weren't my brother! You were just some cold-hearted stranger! You still are!" snaps Thomas.

Hurt flashes across Christopher's expression and he pauses a bit. Thomas walks to the end of the table and throws away the sheet. He looks down at Christopher's body and notices his brother shift uncomfortably.

"I don't want to see you as my brother anymore," murmurs Thomas. "I just want to see you as one of my prized possessions."

There's a slight tremble in Christopher's lips. The color has completely returned to his face now. Thomas approaches him and begins to undo the restraints.

"Wh...what are you doing…?" stammers Christopher.

"Getting a glimpse of what the future will look like," says Thomas as he undoes the last of the straps.

The statement sends a chill down Christopher's spine. He shifts uncomfortably as he's picked up and placed at another table. Pain shoots up at the ends of what remains of his legs as he's rested against the back of a chair. A mirror faces him and he looks away. Even briefly glimpsing at his reflection sent a wave of disgust up his chest. _What had Thomas done to him…? _

Thomas pulls out a drawer and Christopher braces himself. He slightly relaxes when all he sees are cosmetic products. With gentle hands, he begins to brush back Christopher's hair. Throughout the entire process, Christopher closes his eyes and sinks into his thoughts. It's difficult to sit in the chair without the support of his limbs and he misses them more than ever. Distantly, he can hear his brother's voice, now soft and soothing. He ignores it and thinks back to when they were children.

From the beginning, they had been fundamental opposites. As a child, Thomas was often running around the halls and pestering everyone in his line of vision to join in. On the other hand, Christopher was usually found in a corner of the library with a book in his hands. When he was younger, Thomas had often tried to get Christopher to join in his antics. Always, Christopher had refused. In the rare moments that they actually agreed on something, the house was always quiet. Christopher usually had Thomas tucked in his arms, the two of them fallen asleep in front of the fireplace, a book besides them.

Such moments were secretly cherished by Christopher. The warmth of his brother's body, the sound of his raspy breathing, his familiar scent and his peacefully sleeping face warmed his heart. He can't remember when they had had a moment like that in years. _Where did his innocent brother go? When did it all go wrong? _He supposes that he's at fault in a small way, leaving him at the orphanage like that. But he had no choice. It wasn't his fault.

A brush runs across his face. He wrinkles his nose at the ticklish feeling. His eyes are still closed and it's too much of an effort to open them. If their father saw this, what would he have said? Would he have laughed? Something at the back of his mind is dragged to the surface.

"You've done this to me before, haven't you?" says Christopher, breaking the silence.

The brush pauses on his cheek. Then it pulls away.

"I thought you wouldn't have remembered," murmurs Thomas.

Then the brush resumes dusting Christopher's cheeks.

The afternoon sun was pouring in through their mother's bedroom. Christopher had been sitting at their mother's vanity, shifting uncomfortably as he allowed Thomas to paint his face.

"Oww...stop it, Thomas!" he complained. "Why can't you do this to baby Michael?"

"It's because he's fidgety and cries. Now hold still," commands Thomas as he rights Christopher up.

He does a clumsy job of applying cosmetics to his brother's face. Christopher winces as he feels the lipstick fall on his chin.

"I don't want to do this. Mother will be angry," he moped.

"We always do things you want to do!" says Thomas as he stamps his feet. "For once, can we not read boring books?!"

"They aren't boring!" snaps Christopher as he stands up.

He looks at his reflection in the mirror. Their mother's red lipstick is smeared across his chin and the poorly applied eyeliner has given him the appearance of a racoon. The blush is all over his face, coloring it an alarming shade of pink. Thomas stands besides him, his head reaching up to Christopher's shoulder. Both of their mouths are pressed into wavering thin lines. Christopher purses his lips, smearing them even more.

Surprisingly, it's him that laughs first. It begins as a series of stifled snickers. Then giggles. And then peals of laughter. Thomas quickly joins in and before they realize it, they're both laughing at Christopher's reflection.

The tug of the hairbrush briefly brings him back to the present. Christopher still doesn't bother to open his eyes, wanting to further delve into the past.

When was the last time they had laughed like that? In tandem with each other, no ill feelings harbored. In those moments, he had felt a connection between him and his brother. There had always been a small part of him that yearned for that connection to return. He can't remember the most recent time he's laughed like that, with tears streaming down his eyes and all his worries vanishing for the next few moments.

Their father had come in, worried about all the commotion. When he saw the sight, he too had burst into laughter. For once, the two were getting along. That must have been the source of Byron's laughter. After the laughing had subsided, Christopher proceeded to chase Thomas around the house. He hadn't laughed like that his entire life and the feeling was exhilarating. He remembers how that night he had collapsed into his bed, exhausted but happy. His cheeks were red from laughing so much and he hoped to have another day like that soon. In the middle of the night, Thomas had crawled into his bed and the two ended up talking until dawn arrived.

Such moments were so far and rare. The closest they got to nowadays was sitting by each other and busying themselves with a book or a screen. There was no more interaction that gave way to deep discussions or laughter. If they tried to strike up a conversation, there would only be an argument. No matter how they tried to repair their relationship, it had awkwardly petered out into one of compromises. Christopher sighs. It was more like a cracked window that had been covered by a thin layer of duct tape. Bound to shatter, bound to break.

And now he was here. He had never bothered to address Thomas's emotional needs after their father's return, too busy with work and daily life. Deep down, he knew that Thomas needed his help, but he didn't know how to give him the needed support. Instead of admitting that, he continued on with his life. And underneath Thomas's mask, he continued to crack. And crack. And crack. All of his cues requesting for help had been ignored.

Then their father left. And Thomas shattered. Christopher should have been more supportive. He should have at least tried to comfort Thomas in his grief. But everyone was so engrossed in their own emotions that he did not see the signs that something in Thomas had changed. He had just seen it as one of Thomas's usual tantrums. Like a child. But Thomas was no longer a child. He was an adult. When did Christopher forget that?

Actually, he had never accepted that fact in the first place. Thomas was too impulsive, too emotional to be an adult. All of the adults he had known were calm and rational, like his father and Dr. Faker. _He'll calm down when he's an adult,_ he had thought. But Thomas never did calm down. Leaving all of his responsibilities to time was a failing of his ability as an older brother. It's one of his many regrets.

He thinks back to that afternoon of laughter and feels a pang in his heart. Thomas must have also been yearning for such a moment to return. But not like this. Christopher opens his eyes and a mixture of fear and disgust fill his chest. There would be no laughter in this reenactment of the past.

"I don't even look human anymore," chokes Christopher as he looks in the mirror.

"That's because you won't be," says Thomas as he puts the curling iron away. "You'll be a doll."

Christopher's face is a ghastly shade of white, the blush on his cheeks standing out against the pale surface. The center of his lips are painted a bright red, curving into a heart shape. At the side of his left eye, a diamond is drawn. His hair has been loosely styled into a towering pouf, the few remaining strands at the bottom curled into ringlets. But what disturbs him the most is his lack of limbs. His limbless shoulders stare back at him, the bare stumps constantly reminding him that this was far from a nightmare.

"I'm not a doll," asserts Christopher. "And I won't ever be, no matter what you do to me. I'll still be your brother."

There's a slight change in Thomas's expression. He stands next to Christopher and both look at his reflection.

"Would you really still be my brother?" murmurs Thomas.

"Of course..! Please, just stop this and maybe, maybe everything will be just like before," begs Christopher.

Back to him ignoring Thomas. Back to Thomas ignoring him. There's a brief pause, with Christopher holding his breath. Then Thomas places his lips on Christopher's forehead and strokes his cheek, smearing a bit of the rouge.

"No."


	13. Cold Lips

Cold Lips

Michael winces as he hears the door open. He's sprawled on Thomas's bed, his dress haphazardly pulled on. One of his shoulders is still bare from a previous session, a bruise beginning to form where Thomas bit him. He only bit the parts of flesh, careful to never damage the plastic. Worming his way closer to the blankets as he feels the draft, Michael turns away from Thomas as he enters. His lips begin to tremble and he bites it.

_No crying. That will only further motivate him, _he thinks as he feigns being asleep. So far, Thomas had only kissed and bitten him. He hadn't bothered to take Michael's clothes off entirely, but Michael doesn't know how long that would last. For now, he continued to reject Thomas to the best of his abilities. This was abhorrent.

"Asleep, are we?" coos Thomas as he rolls Michael over.

It takes all of Michael's self control to maintain his sleeping mask as Thomas sits him up and rearranges his hair. He pulls up Michael's sleeve onto his bare shoulder and straightens out his skirts. Michael's lips twitch as he feels Thomas refasten the bonnet around his head. A brief kiss is given to him and then the ribbons underneath his chin are tied. He feels himself being picked up, but still refuses to open his eyes.

The draft of the hallway soon blows against his neck and he slightly shivers. Thomas runs his hand down Michael's back and shushes him.

"Go back to sleep," he whispers. "I'm just bringing you back to your room."

Briefly, Michael thinks back to his room filled with artifacts. They must have been getting dusty by now. If only he could dust them off and organize them...He hasn't cleaned anything for weeks now and worry has begun to fill his chest. What if their home was falling into disrepair? What if Thomas doesn't take out the garbage or cleans the dishes? Before, he and Christopher had always been the ones to remind Thomas what his responsibilities were. With both of them under Thomas's control, who would do the housework?

It's a ridiculous thing to worry about, Michael knows, but he just couldn't help it. It's not like this way of living required a lot of focus. And when he wasn't preoccupied with a strenuous activity, he would think in order to fill the void. It would usually drift to things he needed to do in order to stay healthy and maintain the Arclight household. Even in this situation, he is compelled to think of these things, although he could no longer do them.

Thomas opens up the door to the doll room and gently places Michael in the bed. The soft sheets nestle against Michael's skin and he takes in a deep breath at the freshly laundered sheets. He's lovingly tucked in by Thomas, who then closes the curtains around his bed. Now provided with some privacy, Michael opens his eyes. The coral-colored curtains are thin and he could see the silhouettes of the furniture around him. In the distance, Thomas was dusting off some of his dolls. He hums a song under his breath that Michael immediately recognizes from their childhood.

A pang fills his chest. Things had been so simple then. He supposes that Thomas was attempting to simplify things by doing this. It was so much easier to see him and Christopher as objects rather than human beings with emotions. If they were just prized dolls, all they needed to do was look pleasant and love Thomas at all times. There would be no need for tears or anger. Just empty smiles.


	14. Coronation

Coronation

"Good morning, my queen," greets Thomas as he enters his workshop.

Groggily, Christopher opens up his eyes. He's about to beg Thomas to release him and Michael for the umpteenth time, but when he sees the finely sculpted arm in Thomas's hand, all the words die in his mouth. The day had arrived.

"I'll be bringing them in, one by one," says Thomas. "I want to treat them with the utmost care."

Gingerly, he places the arm on the table besides Christopher, securing it with straps. Then he turns to leave, his footsteps echoing behind him. When the door closes behind him, Christopher slowly turns to look at the arm. His brother truly was an artist. It was a shade of porcelain just like his own pale skin. The arm was slightly bent, leading to an equally delicate hand. Slightly cupped, the four fingers were close together, defined by small grooves. The thumb was slightly bent, showing off a beautifully carved nail.

This must have taken hours to sculpt. He imagines Thomas bent over in a workshop somewhere in the basement. Why didn't Thomas just sculpt them here? When the door opens, he turns to look at Thomas.

"Where do you even make these…?" he asks.

Thomas gives him a nonchalant shrug.

"After I cleared it out, our second garage was a great place for this."

"Why not here?"

"Because I need natural light and fresh air."

He places the second appendage on the table and leaves. Christopher swallows hard, a shiver running up his back. He's about to say something else but is interrupted by the sound of the closing door. Hesitantly, he looks at the other arm. It's the mirror opposite of the first arm. Together, they would make two perfectly folded arms, the delicate hands barely touching. A demure pose. He imagines himself with those arms and winces. It looks so..._wrong_. Unlike Michael's, these arms lacked joints. He'd be stuck in that demure pose forever. Forever. Unable to move a single limb. The thought of never being able to walk, run or play the piano again returns. Tears fill his eyes.

Something he had taken for granted all his life had been permanently stolen from him. Even if he was given prosthetics, he would never be able to feel the smoothness of the piano keys with his fingertips ever again. The secret wish of being able to step in mud with his bare feet and squish the wet mud with his toes would never be realized. Throughout his imprisonment, he had often thought of these things. But not as much as today. It had something to do with the sight of the artificial arms besides him. They mocked him. A poor imitation of reality.

Tears sting his eyes and he bites back a sob as Thomas enters with the first leg. He gives Christopher a brief smile and places the porcelain leg on the table.

"It's a work of art," says Christopher emotionlessly. "I...I don't know if I deserve this."

"Nonsense..," reassures Thomas. "You deserve only the best, for you will be queen."

Christopher swallows hard. He doesn't deserve this. He doesn't deserve any of this. As Thomas is about to leave, Christopher turns to look at him.

"Thomas...wait," he murmurs.

"Yes?"

He had only one chance. Taking in a deep breath, he looks into Thomas's magenta eyes.

"Take me to a hospital...please..," begs Christopher. "I want to walk again."

Thomas's thick eyebrows furrow in anger. Christopher can almost see the thoughts racing through his brother's mind.

"Can't you just appreciate my work for once?!" he snaps. " I've poured hours into making these limbs for you!"

"You mutilated me!" screams Christopher, the dull aches across his body increasing as he thrashes against his restraints.

Slowly, Thomas shakes his head.

"Christopher never loved me. But my queen will."

"I _do_ love you!" protests Christopher. "Can you not see all of the things that I've done for you?!"

Thomas's lips are pressed into a thin line. He opens his mouth to speak, but thinks better and storms away, angrily sliding the door behind him. Once again left in silence, the tears of frustration return. He can't have this fate forced onto him. He isn't one of Thomas's dolls, nor will he ever be. The silence creeps against his senses, dulling out his perception of time. Somewhere, a countdown was starting, counting down the moments to his condemnation. In the midst of the silence, he asks himself, "When did Thomas become like this?"

He looks up to the ceiling as if it had answers and lets out a low sob. How long had he been like this? Time was so hard to tell in the windowless room. Well, surely this wouldn't last for long. Someone would suspect that something was amiss after a few weeks. Then, he and Michael would be saved. Surely that would happen. Surely.

_Click._ The sound of footsteps follow the sound of the door opening. Quietly, Thomas places the second leg next to the first. He walks over to a cabinet and rummages around, still saying nothing. When he returns, Christopher sees a syringe in his hand. Slowly, he turns to look at Thomas. His brother's expression is unreadable.

"You can stop this madness...just call the hospital and—"

"No," Growls Thomas as he wipes down Christopher's neck with disinfectant.

Christopher shivers at the coldness of the cloth and wets his lips.

" Please don't do this..," he pleads.

The sharp sting of the needle enters his neck. Thomas's expression has now shifted to one of tenderness. Dread fills creeps up Christopher's spine.

"I loved listening to your voice. It was always so calming to hear whenever you weren't cross with me. It's a pity I'll have to remove it," murmurs Thomas.

Trying to fight back the cloudiness that was slowly filling his mind, Christopher mumbles out a slurred "Why…?"

The last thing he sees before his eyes close is Thomas's sad smile.

"Because dolls don't have voices of their own."


	15. Enthronement

Enthronement

_Something is burning. Did he leave the stove on? _His head feels so heavy...Did he drink something last night? No, he rarely imbibed alcohol. And as far as he could remember, there was no recent holiday. Someone is playing with his hair. He can feel their fingers rearranging the silver strands and irritation fills his chest. Under no circumstances is anyone ever allowed to play with his hair. He slowly opens his eyes, ready to issue a warning to whoever was doing such a thing. Yet when he opens his mouth, nothing but air comes out. What had happened to his voice? His eyes immediately open. He sees his hands folded in his lap, so pale and delicate looking. Had they always looked like that?

When he tries to move them, they don't budge an inch. And that's when he realizes. _No, those weren't his hands_. An attempt to clear his throat yields again to silence. His throat was fine yesterday, so why…? _It's a pity I'll have to remove it, _murmurs Thomas. Memories of the porcelain arms and legs return and he stifles a cry of panic. Nothing would have come out anyways. With painstaking slowness, he tries to look up. The weight on his head makes him feel as if his neck will snap off.

"Ssh...take it easy," murmurs Thomas.

A tanned hand readjusts Christopher's head. In front of him is his reflection, but he can barely tell that it's him. No wonder his head felt so heavy. A foot of his hair had been perched atop his head, a rose vine spiraling around the silver locks. The remainder of his hair is curled into ringlets, trailing onto his shoulders. Just like before, but more cleaner and perfect. His new reality.

He thinks back to the noblewomen of the 18th century who had their hair styled into grotesque works of art as the peasants starved. It was more than common for such works to be riddled with rats, the result of poor hygiene and the need to preserve the "art." Perhaps on the outside, they were beautiful to look at, but beneath the artifice was a nest of vermin. Rotting from the inside. That was what was bound to happen to all of them if this madness continued. Christopher swallows hard and looks at Thomas with a concerned look.

There's a puff of powder in Thomas's hand and he gently pats it on Christopher's face. The elder Arclight grimaces in distaste and slowly shakes his head, trying to back away from Thomas.

"Hold still, your majesty," chuckles Thomas.

He quickly forces Christopher back into position. With deft hands, he applies the rest of the powder. As the process continues, Christopher tries to protest in any way he can. Words are mouthed from his lips but are ignored by Thomas. Whenever he attempts to make an unhappy expression, Thomas would push his features back. Trying to move his torso was a struggle, no thanks to the porcelain limbs. If he leaned forwards, he would most likely fall off his seat.

His legs did not have joints so they stood ramrod straight, seeming to balance precariously on the chair. If he leaned too far, he would become a splayed mess on the floor. The only action left then would be to painstakingly worm his way out the door. _Pathetic_. He would never sink that low. When Thomas returns with a brush and a silver container, Christopher attempts to mouth a few words at Thomas again. Stop it this instant. Take me to the nearest hospital now. Yet all that happened was the brush dipping into the container. With one finger, Thomas pushes Christopher his mouth closed and paints his lips a bright red. It's an eye-catching shade of red and he averts his eyes away from it.

He wants to give Thomas the chastising of his life, but all he can do is mouth at Thomas helplessly as rouge is being applied to his cheeks. _Stop it. Stop it. I'm your brother, not a doll._ Thomas takes an eyeliner pencil and begins to work his way around Christopher's eye. Forced to stay still as an object was dangerously close to his eye, Christopher stills his mouth. As Thomas prepares to move onto the next eye, Christopher attempts to move away from the pencil. Thomas clicks his tongue and pulls Christopher forwards. Christopher shakes his head slowly, the weight from his hair pressing onto his neck. _I don't want this. _But all Thomas does is smile and holds Christopher's head still.

"You're a porcelain doll. You can't speak," he says gently as he works on the left eye.

_But I'm not. I'm a human. Your brother. _Thomas continues to trace Christopher's eye with the pencil. The urge to lash out slowly rises in Christopher's mind. But what could he do? It took too much effort to move, the porcelain limbs weighing him down. He could continue making angry expressions and mouthing frustrations, but that would only anger Thomas in the end. And he wouldn't be able to protect himself.

Tears of frustration begin to fill his eyes as the sky blue eyeshadow is applied. What did he do to deserve this? He couldn't even express his anger properly. The only actions he was able to do were from his head to his torso. Like a worm. Like a bloody worm. Satisfied with his work, Thomas turns Christopher towards the mirror again. The tears threaten to spill over when he sees his reflection. Thick eyelashes, shining eyes, rouged cheeks and delicate painted lips. He hates every part of this.

Thomas gives him a reassuring smile and a kiss on his cheek. Then he walks off. Surely, someone would come and save him before this spiraled into complete madness. He turns away from his reflection, focusing on his body instead. Sometime after the operation Thomas had put him into a white shift. At least he didn't have to see where the flesh ended and where the porcelain began. Like Michael.

The sound of wheels rolling from behind causes him to turn around as best as he can. With a mannequin on each arm, Thomas carefully rolls them next to Christopher. On one mannequin is an elegant sky blue dress, fitted with an outer skirt of the same color. The skirt beneath is decorated with roses and pearls. On the other mannequin are undergarments with blue and white stripes.

Slowly, he feels himself being lifted off his feet. After what must have been days of being forced to lie down, the feeling is disorientating. He's surprised that the porcelain legs could even support the rest of his body. At first glance they seemed so delicate…

He raises an eyebrow when Thomas begins to pull the shift off of the mannequin. Never in his life had he been forced to undergo such humiliation. But if he moved in a sign of protest, he was sure that he would come crashing to the ground. Closing his eyes, he allows himself to be dressed as Thomas pleased. _Someone would save him soon._ Or, that's what he told himself.

If he closes his eyes he can still pretend that everything was normal. At this time, he would have been enjoying tea with Thomas and Michael. The tea would be chamomile. The cookies would be madeleines, purchased at Heartland's finest bakery. Michael would put milk, two sugar cubes and honey in his tea. Thomas would have sipped it with a bit of honey. Depending on his mood, Thomas might have added a few sugar cubes. Christopher would put in his usual teaspoon of honey, a trickle of milk and one sugar cube. Just a normal, perfect day.

They would be out on the veranda in this fine weather, listening to the sounds of nature. Ah, how lovely would the birds have sounded! The warm rays of the sun caressing his skin. The rich smell of the tea and cookies...Everyone would be smiling, appreciating one another's company. Perhaps,he thinks. Perhaps Kaito would come over for tea too. His student would sit beside him, enjoying the gardens. They would work on projects together, far away from the chaos of downtown.

When was the last time he saw Kaito? It must have been a few weeks ago. That made Kaito his best bet on saving them. Sometime or later, Kaito would begin to suspect why his mentor was not answering his calls. Yes. He would be saved soon. It would all soon be just a nightmare. He'd pay attention to Thomas more. Send him to therapy. Allow him to talk to him. Respect him. And maybe their father would come back. That would be nice, too. Just them being a family again, no matter how broken they were.

"And here we are," declares Thomas. "The queen of all my porcelain dolls."

Christopher's eyes flutter open to discover that he's still standing. The mirror is in front of him, detailing every intricate layer of the dress. Its wide skirts contrast with his slim torso, sculpted into a triangular shape by the stays. The artificial arms continue to be folded demurely, bracelets of pearl and gold encircling them. A matching sky-blue lace collar circles around his neck, the silk soft against his skin. Tips of delicate slippers peek out from underneath his skirts.

The tears return back to his eyes. Unceremoniously, he is swept off of his feet and carried out of the room. They walk down the hall filled with their ancestors' portraits. The dull morning light filters in through the windows, casting eerie shadows on the portraits and furniture. Carefully, Thomas walks into a room filled to the brim with his and his mother's porcelain dolls. In the center of the room is an elegantly carved mahogany chair, beckoning the both of them. Thomas gently seats Christopher onto the chair, readjusting his silver curls and dress. The middle Arclight takes a step back and nods, satisfied with his work. With a smile, Thomas takes a bow.

"I am honored to serve you, my doll."

That's when the tears slide down Christopher's carefully rouged cheeks, no longer able to be held back.

* * *

There was an illustration, but the link is unable to be displayed correctly on this website. Perhaps you should check my AO3.


	16. A Tea Party at Noon

A Tea Party at Noon

"You're both so lovely," compliments Thomas.

Christopher and Michael sit in silence. The smell of tea fills the room, its sickly sweet scent jarring compared to the weeks spent in Thomas's cold workshop. Their arms are resting on the table, hands outstretched besides the delicate teacups. Even the simple act of drinking tea had been stolen from them. They stare at Thomas from across the table, their eyes tired and defeated underneath the powder.

An entire week of this nightmare. Christopher had run out of tears to cry, now only expressing his emotions through glances or the ends of his mouth. Thomas takes a sip of tea and slides out of his chair to allow Michael to drink. He gently holds Michael's chin with one hand while the other hand tips the rim of the cup through his lips. Obediently, Michael drinks, white throat bobbing up and down. His eyes are distant, as if they belonged to another individual. This is no longer his body, the piece of flesh melded with plastic that is posed and carressed like a beloved toy.

It's the next moment that ties Christopher's stomach into knots. Resting the empty teacup down, Thomas proceeds to run his lips up and down Michael's throat. Almost imperceptibly, Michael's chest rises and falls a bit faster. Throughout the week, Thomas had often showed a fondness for Michael that hadn't been there before. A lingering touch there. An uncomfortably long kiss here. Christopher gives Thomas his best glare, but Thomas only pauses for a few moments, a smile playing on his lips.

"What, jealous, your majesty?" he purrs, toying with Michael's curls. "Rest easy. Your time will come soon."

Thomas's words sends prickles down Christopher's back. Even the thought of his brother running his hands down his porcelain arms was abhorrent in this light. Thomas gives Michael one last kiss on the cheek and then returns to his seat. As if nothing had happened, Thomas resumes drinking his tea. He gives his dolls a dazzling smile as he drinks, tugging at Christopher's heart.

He hadn't seen Thomas smile like that for years.


	17. The Queen

The Queen

They waltz across the empty ballroom, Thomas's footsteps echoing across the hall. It was an absurd sight, a young man lifting up a doll that was a foot taller than him. The doll's arms limply hang from its shoulders, slightly bent at the elbow. Instead of being dragged around the floor, it looked like it would be happier if it was sat in a chair and left to collect dust. Yet the young man's expression showed absolute bliss. The sunlight streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows, dust motes swirling in the sunbeams.

Once, their father had entertained hundreds of guests in this grand ballroom. The best orchestras would play lively dance ensembles until the stars had vanished from the sky. The guests would have worn their most excellent suits and dresses, the rainbow of fabrics bouncing off of the polished marble floor. Laughter and the smell of champagne would fill the room, the scene intoxicating to guests and onlookers alike. Waltzes, gavottes, minuettes...countless pairs of feet had danced upon this floor.

Yet only two pairs of feet pattered on the tiles now. Their only music was the sound of Thomas's footsteps, a constant pit pit pit pat. Christopher's feet barely touched the floor, his blue silk slippers brushing against the ground every once in awhile. He caught his reflection in one of the windows and sighed. Somehow, he had become accustomed to the wide-skirted dresses and the elaborate hairstyles.

Today, Thomas had fastened a ship to Christopher's hair. It bobbed up and down as the two made their way across the room, as if it was truly at sea. He couldn't help but think that if anyone saw him like this, they would have said that he looked too beautiful to be human. In fact, he was so beautiful that his reflection disgusted himself. Underneath all of that artifice, he could barely recognize himself. Whenever Thomas carried him through the halls, he would glance at their family pictures. If a mirror was nearby, he would compare himself to the photographs.

It seemed that every day he was straying farther from his true self. Soon, he wouldn't even be able to see Christopher Arclight anymore. There would just be a doll in the mirror, a grotesque imitation of what used to be Christopher Arclight.

"Remember when father and mum danced?" asked Thomas, his voice echoing against the bare walls. "They were so beautiful...I always wanted to look like them."

For once, it felt as if this was a normal conversation from brother to brother. Regaining a bit of his humanity, Christopher gives Thomas a small smile and nods as best as he can. To them, their mother was still the most beautiful woman in the world.

She had large, doe-like eyes that were a deep shade of green, often magnified with a pair of round spectacles. Somehow, her hair always had a few strands sticking out no matter how hard she tried to tame it. Ignoring proper appearances, she would go outside hatless and in a ponytail to search for insects in the garden. There were many times where she would come in with an interesting specimen and present it to whoever cared. Most of the time, everyone hid from her.

If Christopher remembered correctly, their father had met her on one of his journeys with Dr. Faker. The two scientists were settling down for the night when a woman covered in dirt and twigs crawled out from beneath the bushes, rambling about scolopendra astra and if they had seen any. Dr. Faker immediately searched for a nearby sharp stick while their father calmly approached the woman with the intent to learn more about scolopendra astra. Needless to say, the two got along quite well.

A woman with an uncanny obsession of collecting and breeding large centipedes, their mother met her untimely end when she was bitten by a particularly poisonous specimen. Still, Christopher remembers how peaceful she looked at the funeral, as if she had died in the best way possible. Of course, their mother had other collections. One of them was dolls. Numerous as her insect and centipede collection, they used to cover all sections of the house. After her passing, their father had gathered all of them and placed them in a single room. Supposedly, it was for the best.

He had often heard that their mother was mad and her bad blood had infected all of her children. Whenever the brothers had heard such things, they would vehemently protest against such accusations. She was merely misunderstood. But now, Christopher began to doubt that the rumors were untrue. Perhaps their mother did have madness in her that was passed onto her children. Thomas, for example.

"Isn't this what she would have wanted?" asks Thomas.

The question returns Christopher back to the present. His smile fades. No. If their mother had seen what Thomas had done, she would have burst into tears and would never stop. What had become of her beautiful boys, now mutilated and reduced to objects? From her own breast she had fed them and sung to all three boys every night, hoping that they would grow up to find happiness like hers. This was not the future she had envisioned for them.

Thomas puts Christopher on the ground, recognizing his brother's growing anger. His mood immediately darkens in response.

"Well, it's your fault that she died," he mutters.

The words are like a cold slap. No matter how many people told him that it was not his fault, it took only one accusation to bring him distress. He was 13 years old, in the midst of a frustrating time of his life when he realized that he wasn't like the other boys his age. What did they see in women and girls that he could not? In his frustration and confused reasoning, he had blamed their mother for making him like this. It was because she was a silly woman, empty headed and simpering, too busy tending to her centipedes to be a proper mother. That she didn't see him as a grown child. That he wished that she would be normal for once. On late nights, his mind runs across these accusations, trying to fix what he had done.

Her beautiful, deep green eyes filled with tears as he continued shouting at her. Tremulously, her pink lips quivered, unable to say a thing to such cutting words. What he remembers most were her eyebrows. They were deeply furrowed, deep wrinkles forming on her forehead. Never had he seen such wrinkles on her forehead before. She had always been laughing or smiling previously. Before young Christopher could fully realize the impact of his words, she had ran off to the room of dolls. The last thing he had said to her was "I hate you!" in a vehement and cold voice.

His final memory of her being alive was her retreating backside, almost comical with the swishing of her numerous skirts. His lips tremble as he relives through that memory and he blinks tears away. It would take a few years later to realize that he had loved men instead of women. Had he been more honest to himself, he wouldn't have said such cruel things to their mother.

Thomas brushes away the tears from Christopher's eyes.

"Consider becoming a doll as payment for what you did."

_Yes, it was his fault._


	18. What the Moon Saw (Explicit VIV warning)

The explicit incest begins here so tread carefully. Honestly though, why aren't you reading the AO3 version that has full color illustrations? Plus, it's already fully done on there. It's just a pain to upload here.

What the Moon Saw

The sound of the door opening jolts Christopher awake. He slowly turns to the crack of light between the curtains around his bed. Besides him, he feels Michael shift in response. Christopher's silk pillow rustles when he moves his head, some of the ornaments in his hair getting caught in the fabric. Even when he sleeps, he's still forced to endure the heavy hairstyles and the restrictive dresses. The worst part was waking up, his face covered in makeup from the night before. It felt as if a hand was pressing on his face, suffocating him. Even the sense of peace from greeting the morning sunlight had been stolen from him.

For a few moments, he hears the footsteps slowly walk towards his bed. A thin flicker of hope fills his chest. Perhaps it was their father who had changed his mind. Oh, the things Christopher would tell him! One hand pulls away the curtains and Christopher tries not to show dismay. There was no sunlight filtering in through the curtains this time, nor was there the familiar face of his father. There was only the bedside lamp and Thomas that received him.

"Let's have some play time, shall we? After all, you're still a doll. And dolls love to be played with," whispers Thomas.

Dread fills the pit of Christopher's stomach. He doesn't know what that exactly means, but he can feel his heart beating faster in his chest. Thomas lifts Christopher from the bed and turns towards the door. Sneaking a glance at Michael, Christopher sees that his brother is wide awake. His eyes are wide in worry. Before the door closes behind him, he mouths out one word that Christopher reads with dread. Run.

Useless advice, for he no longer had legs. But the desperation of that word made Christopher's fear escalate. Escape. He looks around the hall, the usual family photographs lining the walls. In the dim light, they looked ominous, as if they were from another world. His mind flashes back to those nights in which Michael was taken from his side.

"Play time" was what Thomas had called it. Oh gods. With what was left of his body, Christopher attempts to wriggle out of Thomas's grasp. His brother's grip tightens around his body. A quick kiss is placed on his cheek. They approach Thomas's room, door ajar. Christopher struggles against Thomas even harder, now unafraid of showing his panic. No. He wouldn't let Thomas do such disgusting things to him. He couldn't.

"Stop it..," murmurs Thomas as he closes the door behind him.

In this situation, he wouldn't care if he had to worm away to escape. Even if his limbs dragged against the floor and he escaped inch-by-inch, it still wouldn't matter. Anything but this. As he's rested on the bed, Christopher vehemently shakes his head. He's put on his best glare, in hopes that Thomas would still fear him. It's worked before...when he was still Christopher. He swallows hard when he's seated against the headboard.

"I want to see how beautiful you are," Thomas says as he climbs onto his bed.

Briefly, Christopher's thoughts go to Michael. This must have happened countless times to him. Bile fills his throat. How could Thomas live with himself? He can't help but flinch when Thomas places a hand on Christopher's cheek. Thomas's eyebrows furrow in worry at the response.

"I'll be gentle. I promise."

With that, he begins to run his lips across Christopher's collarbone. A shiver runs down Christopher's back each time Thomas's lips meet his skin. Any attempts at shifting away from Thomas is met with Thomas's firm hands pushing him back. No, stop, he mouths. Please. His breathing and heart rate accelerate alongside each other. A hand crawls to the back of his dress, fumbling with the zipper. If only he could push Thomas away and slap him. The fingers begin to unlace his stays and he hisses in a rush of anger. No. Stop it. Thomas!

His face is burning with a mixture of indignance and fear. Pulling away from Christopher, Thomas proceeds to take off the dress. Christopher clenches his teeth as the cold air brushes against his shoulders. He mouths protests the entire him his clothes are being removed, worming this way and that to no avail. As Thomas removes the final layer, Christopher is urged to scream. But all he can do is lean his torso to the side, getting the shift stuck for a few moments.

He feels Thomas readjust his body, followed by a slight tsk. The blood roars in his ears as the shift is thrown to the floor. When he looks at Thomas again, all he can see is his desperation. A burning hunger to be loved existed in those eyes. But it wasn't in the way Christopher had wanted it to be. Since when did things go wrong? Was it the fire? The orphanage?

" Now you can't run away anymore…" The memory of Thomas's words bring a chill down Christopher's spine.

His brother's eyes move down to the area between Christopher's legs. Christopher looks up at Thomas with disgust and fear. His body grows rigid when Thomas trails his finger across Christopher's porcelain thigh. With what little strength he has, Christopher tries to back away.

"Shh..," murmurs Thomas.

He draws closer to Christopher, his lips caressing Christopher's chest. A sharp gasp escapes from Christopher when he feels Thomas's fingers wrap around his cock. I swear to God, you do this and I will never forgive you, mouths Christopher in pure anger. Thomas turns up to look at him. His voice is cold when he says the next sentence.

"You're a doll. You have no need to worry about such things."

He kisses Christopher on his lips, eliciting a gasp from him. As Thomas continues to tease Christopher, the hatred for his inability to fight back grows. What kind of a brother was he, allowing Thomas to do such things? Stop it. Don't touch me, mouths Christopher in frustration. Trying to worm away from Thomas proves to be useless, as his brother holds him close, lips encircled around a nipple. The sucking motion brings forth a rush of pleasure that is quickly quashed by disgust. No. He shouldn't be feeling like this.

Thrashing leads to Thomas's chuckle. The sucking intensifies and Christopher swallows a scream. As he thrashes, his body brushes against Thomas's. Thomas begins to move the hand that has ahold of Christopher in motion with the thrashing. A rush fills Christopher's chest and he bites down a moan. Heat fills his cheeks and he immediately stops his struggling in hopes that Thomas would also stop. Yet the pumping motion continues and a breath escapes Christopher's throat. Stop, he begs, holding down another moan. Why did he even bother?

Closing his eyes, he tries to imagine that this wasn't happening to him. That this was merely a long nightmare and soon, he'd wake up in his own bed, safe and sound. Their father would be there, noting how late he was to breakfast. Thomas would look smugly from his breakfast, revelling in his brother's dishevelled appearance. Michael would give him an awkward smile.

Somehow, his hips have started moving alongside Thomas's hand. He clenches his teeth and dives further into his thoughts. His chest falls with a pleasured exhale. No, that couldn't be him. The real Christopher Arclight was in his bed, sleeping peacefully. Not this...doll. Yes. That was all he was. A doll, made to pleasure its master. His cheeks are red from fighting himself for so long. Giving in, he feels his body give itself to Thomas. Even though he knows that this is abhorrent, he raises his hips and presses against Thomas.

_You're a bloody hypocrite_, snaps Christopher in his head. What is wrong with you?! But this was a doll.

As he's about to climax, he realizes he hasn't felt this good in ages. It almost erased the hell that was now his life. Almost. Abruptly, Thomas releases his hand and Christopher lets out a frustrated huff.

"Relax..," he chuckles. "I'm merely bringing you down."

Once his head is comfortably nestled in Thomas's pillow, it doesn't take long for Thomas to resume. As Christopher arches his back and comes, he vaguely feels Thomas letting go. The seed spatters his chest and a part of his face, but he was far too busy basking in the afterglow to care. He can feel his chest heaving up and down, his face red with embarrassment but also satisfaction.

And then he realizes that his brother had made him feel this way. Bile rises to the top of his throat. He's suddenly aware of the cum on his body, immediately disgusted with himself. His eyes trail to Thomas, who looks down at him with an arrogant smirk.

"Not so haughty now, are we?" chuckles Thomas as he swipes away the cum from Christopher's face.

With a handkerchief, he wipes Christopher's cock. The silk against his heated skin is a blessing, but he's too sick to admit it. He squirms in discomfort, knowing very well that this would only be the first of many times he would be forced to do this. As the rest of his body is wiped down, the gravity of his situation dawns upon him. Not only would he ever move again, but he would have to allow Thomas to "play" with him whenever he wanted. There was no way to fight back.

Thomas lovingly pats his brother's cheek and lays down besides him. He turns off the light and rests his arm over Christopher's chest. Christopher squirms in discomfort as he feels Thomas's breath tickle the back of his neck.

"How about one more time, my queen?"

Christopher is silent as he feels Thomas pull down his trousers. Tears spring to his eyes and he screws them shut. Bending to the whims of his brother like this...it must be how being a doll was like.


	19. Lola

Lola

Ryoga irritatedly raps the back of his hand against the large oaken door. When there is no reply, he jabs the doorbell. The deep, sonorous tolling of the chimes can be heard even through the thick wood. If that doesn't wake the Arclights, nothing will. He crosses his arms and begins to tap his foot impatiently. A waste of time. That's what it was. Who cared if III had been absent for a month and a half? He himself had been gone for more than a few months at a time and no one came to help him.

Anyways, III was from a wealthy family. Perhaps he had found a better college to go to. Maybe he transferred abroad. If it hadn't been from the combined pleading of Yuma and Rio, he wouldn't have even been here in the first place. Originally, Yuma had planned to go with Ryoga until a last minute altercation with Kotori stopped him. From what Yuma had told him, Kotori had seen his grades and was demanding he study with her. Ryoga shrugs. Although he was almost never in school, his grades were excellent.

As he was about to turn and leave, IV answers the door. His supposed friend made no effort to mask his surprise as he saw him. Not even a rude reply escaped his lips.

"Ryoga," he said flatly.

"Who else?" retorts Ryoga.

"What are you doing here?"

"Delivering school work for your brother," says Ryoga as he shows IV the stack of papers in a bag.

Nodding slowly, IV backs away and beckons Ryoga to come inside. Ryoga shakes his head.

"I have some things to do. I can't stay long. Just give these to your brother."

"I insist," says IV as he opens the door wider. "I haven't seen you in awhile. What have you been up to?"

More than what you'd expect, thinks Ryoga as he hesitantly steps into the house. The wealthy furnishings of the Arclight mansion dazzled his eyes and he thought back to the Kamishiro mansion. Where his and the barians' home was renovated and furnished with modernism in mind, the Arclights' was the very opposite. Old money. Ryoga allows himself to be led through the halls and into the living room, where he is seated on a settee. Instead of cushioning him like a normal seat, it seemed to push against him with its unyielding surface. It seemed that guests were not a common occurrence here.

Seating himself across from Ryoga, Thomas musters up a smile. Meeting the smile with an unchanged expression, Ryoga tries to lean back against the settee. The straight back refuses to yield and an almost imperceptible frown tugs at his lips.

"This was originally Yuma's idea until he got in a fight about his grades with Kotori," mutters Ryoga.

"Ah, young love," sighs Thomas wistfully.

Ryoga rolls his eyes and sets Michael's assignments on the coffee table.

"Yuma wants to know about why III hasn't been coming to class as of late," says Ryoga plainly.

Thomas's smile wavers for a bit and he slowly stands up.

"It's complicated. Let me get us some refreshments."

He heads into the kitchen and grabs the kettle. Taking a bag of tea, he puts it in the kettle and fills it with water. He can hear the blood rushing through his ears and his heartbeat accelerating. Ryoga would never understand. Turning on the stove, he quickly sets the kettle on it, trying to quell his nervousness. Remain calm. He must remain calm. Provide a believable excuse. But Ryoga can tell when he's lying. Those sharp eyes of his had always been able to see through Thomas's theatrics.

Opening up the pantry, he grabs a packet of cookies and rips open the bag with shaking hands. Remain calm. He takes in a few deep breaths as he pours the contents of the bag onto a plate. Ryoga cannot grow suspicious. But those eyes of his...those wide, deep blue eyes of his would know. With his beautifully smooth skin...those thin eyebrows and those pink lips...If only Ryoga would smile more. He'd look so cute. No matter how grumpy Ryoga was, there was always something oddly endearing about him. Maybe it was from the silly way he dressed. Although he had dropped the gem-studded jacket (thank goodness) and the matching shoes, he had moved onto leather jackets with metallic spikes and low cut band t-shirts underneath. He supposes that it was just a darker version of his 14-year old outfit, with more spikes than gems.

Or maybe it was just his face that amused Thomas. Whenever he glared, his nose would always wrinkle up in the cutest way. It was always so fun, teasing him. If he could do that every day and watch his reactions...that would be pure bliss. The urge to add to his collection pulls at him and he knows that this is wrong. This is oh, so wrong. But wouldn't his dolls like a new addition? He's sure they would. Things have gotten quiet between them for the last few weeks. A new doll would make everyone excited. Oh, how he would tease the new doll! Perhaps even to the point of crying. The thought of Ryoga crying is odd in itself. But, thinks Thomas, it could be cute. He licks his lips as he looks down at the plain sugar cookies.

Michael had loved these. He never understood why. They were always so plain. Occasionally he would dip them in milk or with his tea but they had always proved disappointing. No one would mind if he added some sugar, would they? He goes to the third drawer in the kitchen and pulls it out. Moving the small spice jars to the side, he then lifts the false bottom away and smiles. A small bottle, filled with what looked like sugar stared up at him. In neat handwriting, Sleeping Tonic was written on a label faded with age. He unscrews the cap and sprinkles some of it onto the cookies. Then he places a few chocolate squares atop of the cookies. He would slowly eat those while avoiding the cookies to avoid suspicion.

This is wrong, a voice tells him as the tea kettle wails. For good measure, he scoops a bit of the powder and pours it into Ryoga's cup. This is wrong, the voice repeats again. Thomas turns off the stove. I know. He pours the tea into both cups and watches as the powder dissolves. If Ryoga wouldn't eat the cookies, he still had the tea. Pouring the rest of the tea into a teapot, he places everything on a tea service, mindful of which cup was his.

Ah, his father's secret stash was finally being put to good use. Despite their father's cheerful demeanor from before, he had always suffered from terrible migraines. No safe amount of pain medication could alleviate the pain and therefore, Byron had chosen sleep as his solution. Thomas could always tell when Byron had taken some of his medicine, for his father walked unsteadily and his eyes were drooping. His words were slurred and he couldn't walk up the stairs without assistance. The butler usually took him to his room whilst the maids tried their best to keep Thomas and his brothers from seeing their father in such a state. But Thomas had eventually seen it, secretly following his father around until he was led to the stash.

When he arrives in the living room, he places the tea service on the coffee table. Carefully, he gives Ryoga his cup and takes a chocolate square for himself. Ryoga sourly takes his cup and looks down at it.

"Took you long enough," he grumbles, blowing away the steam.

"You should've called," retorts Thomas.

Ryoga rolls his eyes and grabs a cookie. He takes a large bite out of it and swallows.

"So what's the deal with your brother's absences?" asks Ryoga.

Thomas lets out a sigh and blows on his tea. From over the cup, he watches Ryoga's reactions to his next words.

"He's been very sick," murmurs Thomas.

"Why didn't you call, then?" asks Ryoga contemptuously. He takes another bite of the cookie. This time, there is a slight raising of his eyebrow as he tastes the cookie, but nothing else.

Hopefully, the medicine didn't offset the taste too much. This is wrong.

"I've been so busy taking care of him that I forgot," admits Thomas. "He's bedridden and can't speak."

Ryoga acknowledges the reply with a nod. He scans the living room and blinks. The only sound that can be heard is the grandfather clock's ticking.

"Where's your older brother and Tron?"

Another sigh from Thomas. He takes a dainty sip of his tea and looks out the window. From the corner of his eye, he can tell that Ryoga's sharp eyes have remained focused on him.

"Out in the Arctic lab. I've tried to reach them, but they aren't answering."

There's a small shake of Ryoga's head as he takes another bite.

"So III isn't well enough to do his work, huh?" murmurs Ryoga as he looks at the stack of homework. "I'll take it back then."

"Don't bother yourself. He's too sick to do anything. Just stay here for a bit and talk. We haven't had a proper conversation in...ages," laughs Thomas.

Ryoga takes a sip of his tea and takes another cookie. He had dirt under his nails and the skin around them were peeling. Thomas would fix that. Beautiful, sturdy limbs that would lock in place. Yes, that would be perfect. Ryoga quickly finishes the cookie and takes another one. On the other hand, Thomas is only halfway sucking through his chocolate.

"I was so ready to get this over with, I didn't even have breakfast," Ryoga admits.

"That's fine! Eat as many as you'd like. We have so many of these, we don't even know what to do with them," chuckles Thomas.

Ryoga's eyebrow raises as he takes a bite out of his third cookie.

"You don't get a lot of guests, do you?"

"Unfortunately, no. Can't understand why though," replies Thomas breezily.

Another sip of tea. Followed by another finished cookie. Trying to hide his pleasure, Thomas begins another conversation.

"How is your sister?" he begins quietly.

There's a pause as Ryoga picks up a chocolate square. He then looks at Thomas with a guarded expression.

"The occasional nightmare here and there...otherwise, she's fine."

Thomas drains his teacup and pours himself another one.

"Me too."

Immediately, Ryoga's gaze sharpens.

"Of course you should. It was a horrific thing to do to an innocent bystander."

Much like Thomas, Ryoga's teacup has emptied.

"I'm truly sorry for what I did. I can't tell you how much I'm sorry. I never knew that the card would have done such a thing. But I know it doesn't excuse me," says Thomas quietly.

Ryoga nods with closed eyes. When he opens them, he glares at Thomas.

"Does Tron still think about what he did?" growls Ryoga.

The final letter from his father resurfaces in Thomas's mind.

"Yes. It haunts him every day," replies Thomas emotionlessly.

So much that he left.

Another nod from Ryoga.

"He has a conscience, then. I never expected that."

A spark of defensiveness flares in Thomas's chest. Of course his father had a conscience. He knows when things are wrong, yet willingly does them anyways. Just like me.

"We all regret our actions at one time or another," says Thomas as he takes another chocolate square.

"Some more than others," murmurs Ryoga, his eyes beginning to droop.

"Ah, well that's how life goes."

Ryoga rests his cheek on his hand, quietly looking out the window. He made such a pretty sight, the sun shining against his purple curls.

"Whenever there's a period of calm in our lives, I'm always worried that there's something lurking around the corner," he confesses, deep blue eyes growing distant.

They were so pretty, half closed like that.

"You don't need to worry about that anymore..," reassures Thomas.

He begins to clean up the table, Ryoga sleepily observing his movements. Entering the kitchen, Thomas places the cookies on a counter and opens up the fridge. Surely, someone would be paying him a visit in a few days. Placing the plate in the fridge, he then empties the teapot's contents into the sink. With a satisfied smile, he walks out to see Ryoga still sprawled on the couch, his eyes almost closed. Anger fills their depths.

"That shit was drugged...wasn't it?" growls Ryoga. "I'll never forgive you."

Shushing Ryoga, Thomas closes his eyes and holds Ryoga in his arms, waiting for his entire body to go limp. He would make an interesting doll. Cute and made to serve his every whim and need. Once he feels Ryoga's breathing slow down, he smiles and carries him upstairs.


	20. Three (Explicit Incest warning)

Three

Christopher watches in mute horror as Thomas forces himself down Michael's throat. Tears stream down his brother's face as he struggles against Thomas, his body useless against him. His throat bobs up and down as he swallows the precum, his lips moving back and forth. Every time this happens, Christopher is forced to watch. He's seated on the throne, bedecked in their mother's jewelry and face painted a garish white, helpless as his brother gets raped in front of him. What kind of a life was this?

Disgust fills his every being, yet he can only mouth curses at Thomas. His brother looks at him helplessly, his pink curls splayed across his face. Eventually, Thomas pulls away and releases on Michael's face. He holds Michael for a few moments, looking at his tear-streaked face with a cold smile. And then he lets him go, allowing Michael to uselessly fall onto the floor. Michael gasps for air, gagging at the taste in his mouth. His chest shudders with each breath, tears still trailing down his face.

Thomas turns to Christopher and slowly walks towards him, as if he were a child abandoning a toy for a better one. He ignores Christopher's appalled expression and strokes his cheek. Don't do this...for the love of God...Please don't do this... mouths Christopher. He's replied by a sweaty kiss on the lips and strong hands standing him up. Thomas's fingers crawl down his back, undoing his stays. Stop it! Stop! Christopher lets out a hiss of frustration and shifts his weight backwards. He would rather fall and risk a concussion than be degraded like this again.

Not expecting such force, Thomas's support loosens and Christopher is released from his grip. As if time has slowed down, Christopher can feel every inch of his descent. Down...down...until his head thuds against the cushion of his seat. He winces in pain but looks back up at Thomas in defiance. No, he wouldn't allow himself to be reduced to some much abused toy. Surprise passes by Thomas's face. Then anger. A dark expression fills Thomas's eyes, his mouth pressed into a firm line. When he speaks, his voice is low and menacing. In the background, even Michael has stopped crying.

"How dare you reject me?" hisses Thomas.

Swiftly, he rushes towards Christopher and wraps his fingers around his thin neck. He squeezes, causing a choked gasp to escape from Christopher.

"Was the orphanage not enough for you?!" roars Thomas as he throttles Christopher.

Only a choked exhale answers him, Christopher's eyes filling with tears. The words that Christopher attempts to mouth are ignored. What little his body can do to struggle is firmly held back.

"I am your master!" snaps Thomas as he releases Christopher.

He strikes Christopher across the face, earning a gasp from Michael. The blow stings Christopher's cheek, bringing more tears to Christopher's eyes. Before he can take in a deep breath, Thomas slams his head against the marble floor.

"All I've done for you...feed you...clothe you...entertain you...and I get paid with this?!" he snaps.

Christopher can hear the pearls wrapped around his head snap, the individual beads rolling away. He can feel his tears trickling down his cheeks, taste the blood in his mouth and the urgent need to breathe. Yet all he could do was struggle uselessly with what remained of his body, now so much like a worm's. I'm sorry, he mouths weakly, feeling Thomas's grip relax. He takes in a grateful shuddery breath of air. I'm sorry.

"You're nothing but a doll. And I am your master," says Thomas coldly.

What did Christopher do to deserve such a thing? His gaze flickers to Michael, who has resumed crying. What did they both do to deserve such a thing?

He feels Thomas's hands roughly lifting him up and pushing him against a wall. He swallows hard and looks at Thomas with a plea in his eyes. Yet his hands continue to move emotionlessly down his back, roughly undoing the laces. When he pulls the dress off, Christopher struggles against it, the fabric catching in-between his shoulder and the porcelain arm. Thomas continues to pull, causing waves of pain to cascade throughout Christopher's body. He feels the porcelain being separated from his flesh and lets out a soundless scream, his body shaking with pain. Realizing what was happening, Thomas roughly yanks the sleeve away from the groove and does away with the rest of the dress.

The rest of his clothes are undone in quick succession. In no time at all, Christopher is bare of everything save for a pair of stockings. He feels Thomas's hand run against the back of what remains of his thigh and shivers. Briefly, it pulls away and he hears the sound of a tube being squeezed. Biting his lips, he closes his eyes and tries to keep the tears at bay. What did he do to deserve this? Stifling a cry as Thomas's fingers enter him, Christopher feels himself being pushed even harder against the wall. He's been bent over, Thomas's hand on his hip. There was something possessive in that grip and that fact missed neither of them.

Tears of humiliation sting Christopher's eyes. What Thomas was doing was disgusting. The way his fingers moved inside of his flesh disgusts him and he wants to scream. But he no longer has a voice or Thomas's respect. He tries to think of other times, other places, but his mind keeps on returning here. Not even thoughts of Kaito can keep Thomas out. What was his friend doing anyways? Hasn't he grown worried? How long had he been missing anyways? Kaito tended to communicate with him on a weekly basis. Yes...maybe Kaito would save him. He's quickly pushed back into his current situation when the fingers pull out. He swallows hard, not wanting any of this but forced to accept all of it.

When Thomas enters him, Christopher lets out a sob. He feels his tears dampen the cold walls, his cheek forcefully pressed against the wallpaper. If only he could die. Back and forth. Back and forth. When would this madness stop? Thomas's breath brushes against his cheek, sending shivers down his spine.

"Cheer up, both of you..," murmurs Thomas. "This will be one of the last times I'll play with you like this. The next doll will be specifically made for...such things."

Christopher's body grows rigid. A new doll? Of flesh, like him and Michael no, they weren't dolls. They weren't. Where would Thomas have even found them? No, it must be one of those realistic, silicone dolls. It couldn't have been another person. The thought of Thomas making love to such a thing repulses Christopher almost as much as Thomas forcing himself on his brothers. Thomas's hand strokes Christopher's cock and immediately, Christopher stiffens at the unwanted contact. A chuckle bubbles up from Thomas's throat.

"Clearly, you haven't learned to obey your master. Perhaps I should play with you more."

No. He would do anything for this to be the last time. Taking in a deep breath, Christopher bites his lip and allows his body to move into a rhythm with Thomas. One last time. One last time . Then it would be a piece of silicone's turn. Yes . He tells himself the same words again and again, trying to believe it. But he has never been good at lying to himself. The new doll would have been a person once. Of flesh and blood. But who?

Soon after, he feels Thomas finish inside of him. Withdrawing, Thomas zips up his trousers and flips Christopher over. A pitiful smile graces Thomas's lips. A thing once so proud was now reduced to a tear-stained wreck. Eyeliner runs down Christopher's cheeks and stray locks of hair cover his face. He couldn't even look at Thomas directly, his eyes filled with hurt and betrayal. Gently, Thomas's brushes his lips against Christopher's wet cheeks.

He picks Christopher up and heads towards the door.

"Let's get both of you a bath."


	21. Scars

Scars

The steam swirls around them, each of them seated at opposite sides of the bathtub. There wasn't enough water to drown oneself in, notes Christopher. They were unable to slip onto their backs and have the water submerge their face, for their feet were pressed against each other's. If they leaned forwards, the water would not be high enough.

Thomas was off somewhere, saying that he was going to prepare the next doll. Looking at one another, Christopher and Michael saw the ravages of the operations on each other's bodies. Michael's plastic limbs contrasted with his skin color slightly. It jutted out of his shoulders unnaturally, the ball joints looking entirely out of place. He knows that Michael must be seeing similar things on his body and he winces.

_Does it hurt?_ mouths Michael timidly. _Only when he moves it,_ replies Christopher. A long sigh escapes from Michael and he looks down at the water. _I thought someone would have saved us by now_. Christopher nods quietly. If only he could hold Michael in his arms like he used to and tell him that all would be right in the end. But nothing would be all right in the end. Not after this.

_Do you think he hates us?_ asks Michael after a long silence. It's strange how fast Christopher and Michael have learned to read each other's lips. Perhaps it was because when one had nothing to do but sit and serve as a decoration, one would do anything for entertainment or stimulation. _No, I don't think so,_ replies Christopher. _He's just lost_. As much as he would like to scream and say that Thomas was being a cruel and idiotic child, he could not set a bad example in front of Michael. Even like this. Especially like this.


	22. Artist's Work

Artist's Work

The limbs would need to be finished quickly. Before _she_ came. Thomas looks at the two arms with bloodshot eyes. Long after he had laid his dolls to rest, he had diligently worked on the new doll's limbs. Every single part of the arm was moveable, from every section of finger to to the shoulders. The hooks and loops slightly jutted out in order to ensure that the doll would remain posed the way the master desired. He had hurriedly ordered clothes for the doll, buying whatever struck his fancy.

Ryoga would look so cute in all of them, his little moans causing Thomas to tease him even more. He'd come to like it eventually. Soon, his anger would be replaced with joy. Thomas downs another energy drink and proceeds to work on the legs. Silently, he prays that she would give him a few days before she came.

_This is wrong and you know it_, a voice tells him as he looks at the leg preserved in formaldehyde. But it's too late now. Ryoga will never be able to walk or move his arms again. The leg is smooth and pale. Not a single bit of hair is seen. Ryoga was quite meticulous in his appearance, wasn't he? Thomas licks his lips as he imagines Ryoga's body contorted into a pose with his new limbs. Ryoga would have no choice but to love his master.


	23. Eyes Open, Mouth Closed

Oh, silly me. How could I expect you to move to see the illustrations in the AO3 fic when I haven't even given you the link?

/works/20090821/chapters/47586289

For some reason it won't let me type in the full URL. There's the tail though. Just make sure to add archive**of**our**own .org but remove the asterisks because if I didn't use the asterisks, they would have been deleted after I saved. I don't know why.

In short, type the words without the asterisks, then paste in the whole /works tail thingy.

Man, what a bunch of work.

Eyes Open, Mouth Closed

Ryoga opens his eyes, a whimper escaping from his throat. He can barely remember anything, his head feeling as if it was stuffed with cotton. What did he take last night? Was he ripped off by his dealer? He knew he shouldn't have trusted them. He should have stuck with the barianite. It was cheap and easy to obtain for the likes of him. Although lately it hadn't been as effective as before. Ugh . He knows he shouldn't do such things, but life had become inconceivably dull for him the past few years.

A dull pang fills his body and he shifts uncomfortably. His dealer will definitely be hearing from him along with a few other things. No. Wait. IV. Tears? But Ryoga wouldn't cry. What would have made him cry anyways? Unless he was so out of it, he couldn't remember...Apparently, there had been times when he had been given a bad batch and spent most of the high locked up somewhere crying. But barianite didn't do that to him. And he could remember exactly what happened to him after he took barianite.

Loss…? The feeling of it…? What was taken from him? His head feels so heavy...No. This wasn't something he had taken of his free will. He was drugged. The cookies. The tea. IV had never touched the cookies, now that he thinks of it. He only nibbled on a chocolate square. Damnit, damnit all. Just what the hell did IV want with him? There's holes in his memory. He knows it. There was something cold and metallic against his back. He's pretty sure he was strapped to it. But why? A knife. A marker. A saw. The hell? Did IV want his organs? Well, he must have been pretty disappointed when he opened Ryoga up.

Someone is running their lips down his chest. Swallowing, Ryoga grimaces at the dryness.

"Fuck off..," growls Ryoga, trying to bat them away.

His arms don't obey him and he grimaces. Sleep paralysis? At a time like this? Fighting the urge to go back to sleep, Ryoga groggily opens up his eyes. He's so cold...and then he sees IV and his blood freezes.

"F...four?!" exclains Ryoga. "What are you…"

He tries to back away, but he's against a wall. Thomas looks down at him, a smile playing on his lips. Ryoga tries to move his legs, scoot away, anything...but he can't. Looking down at his legs, his breath catches in his throat. Hooks and loops with joints. What kind of a sick joke was this? And what was he wearing anyways? Lingerie? Black and lacy with red accents, a sheer silk piece of fabric serving as thin covering.

Oh gods, what kind of sick fantasy was this? Swallowing hard, he glares up at IV.

"What the hell, IV?!" he snaps.

Yet IV continues to smile, tickling Ryoga under the chin. Ryoga scowls in return.

"Answer me," demands Ryoga. "What the hell is this?"

Oh, he was so cute.

"From now on, you will call me master," says Thomas as he runs a finger down Ryoga's chest.

"Shut up!" shouts Ryoga. He tries to move again but to no avail. "What the fuck did you do to me?!"

"You're a doll now!" laughs Thomas. "Just like the others!"

The...others? Ryoga scans the room and stops when he sees a doll with pink and chocolate curls. Its deep green eyes holds his gaze for a few moments. Then, it blinks and Ryoga nearly screams. Please... mouths the doll. Its lips continue to move, but Ryoga is no longer able to process. Instead, he focuses on a regally dressed doll. Its cold and elegant beauty was reminiscent of the eldest Arclight brother. The resemblance was too much. He swallows hard and is about to turn away when the doll turns to him. Immediately, Ryoga's heart leaps to his throat.

That must be him. Those piercing blue eyes, now so sad. That tricolored mass of hair that was now organized into a tower of curls. Skin that was so pale, now even more so. Like that of a corpse's. Ryoga.., V mouths. His eyes are pleading, rimmed by thick eyelashes. There was something nightmarish about all the makeup he wore, making him seem more severe than usual.

Once again, Ryoga turns to III. He's still trying to communicate with his panicked mouthing. Turning back to IV, Ryoga begins to feel the first spark of fear.

"Aren't they beautiful?" asks Thomas, his voice ringing across the room. "I created their new limbs myself."

New limbs…? Ryoga looks down at his own arms and legs. He swallows hard. Either this was real or he had overdosed on something that wasn't barianite.

"Wh...what do you mean? Wh-why aren't they moving? Why can't they speak?"

Ryoga can't help but let the panic creep into his voice. Thomas notices and gives him a reassuring pat on his head. He would rather wake up in a hospital, connected by tubes and a dialysis machine, his kidneys completely devastated by the drugs he had taken than to this. This was too much.

"They're dolls. I had to remove their original limbs and give them more suitable ones. And they can't speak because they don't have vocal cords anymore," explains Thomas calmly. "After all, these kind of dolls don't have voices, so why should they?"

A whimper escapes from Ryoga's throat.

"Then...w-why can I speak?"

Thomas gives him a beautiful smile that in other situations, Ryoga would have sneered at.

"Because. I want to hear your cries and helpless pleading when I play with you."

Those words make Ryoga want to escalate into full-blown panic. When Thomas picks him up, Ryoga feels a tightening in his chest. The effects of the sedative were beginning to wear off, much to his dread. Reality was coming in, whether he liked it or not. M...maybe he had signed up to film an adult video? With IV? But why would III and V be there? Then why could he no longer feel his arms and legs? No, no...this...this must be reality.

V and III's eyes follow him piteously. Their mouths have stopped moving.

"Why are you doing this…?" asks Ryoga, trying to fill in the void of panic.

"Is it too much to ask to be loved?" murmurs Thomas as he carries Ryoga into his room.

He places Ryoga on the bed and proceeds to kiss his neck.

"Stop," begs Ryoga. "I don't want this…"

Thomas pulls away, cupping Ryoga's face in his hands. Ah, fear.

"You don't have a choice in this..," murmurs Thomas as he pulls off the silk covering.

"No! Stop! Back off or I'll…"

What could he do? He could barely move. There's an amused smirk on Thomas's face as he unhooks the bra and pulls it away. A whimper escapes from Ryoga's throat as Thomas's finger hooks onto the edge of the panties. When he pulls it off, Ryoga lets out another whimper. He's so cold.

Moments later, the dolls in the dolls' room hear a bloodcurdling set of screams. A new doll had been born.


End file.
